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PETER    CARRADINE 


OK   THE 


MARTINDALE    PASTORAL 


BY    CAROLINE    CHESEBEO'. 


"  For  Love,  methinks,  hath  power  to  raise 

The  soul  above  a  vulgar  state  ; 
The  unconqucr'd  banners  he  displays 
Control  our  fears,  and  fix  our  fate." 


SHELDON    &    COMPANY,    335    BROADWAY. 

BOSTON  :    GOULD    &   LINCOLN. 

M  DCCC  LXIII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863 , 
BT     SHELDON    &    COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New 
York. 


J.  H.  TOBITT,  Printer  and  Stereolyper,  C.  8.  WESTCOTT,  Printer, 

1  Franklin  Square.  79  John  Street. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

The  Bomb-Burst . . . 


CHAPTER    II. 
Looking  for  a  Substitute 22 

CHAPTER    III. 
The  Advent,  with.  Results 33 

CHAPTER    IV. 
Morning  Glory 42 

CHAPTER    V. 
Nature  and  Grace 47 

CHAPTER   VI. 
One  Kind  of  Sympathy C5 

CHAPTER    VII. 
Thirty  Miles,  and  More 61 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Elder's  House 69 

CHAPTER    IX. 
The  Gathering 88 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER    X. 
In  the  Woods 106 

CHAPTER    XI. 
Miranda's  Changing  Heart 117 

CHAPTER    XII. 
What  is  a  Cousin  Good  For?  etc 123 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
Correspondence 136 

CHAPTER    XIV. 
What  an  Inkstand  Cost 147 

CHAPTER     XV. 
Divers  Gifts,  and  Ways  of  Receiving 164 

CHAPTER    XVI. 

What  is  Small  and  What  is  Great 166 

CHAPTER     XVII. 
The  Letter 176 

CHAPTER     XVIII. 
The  Friends  and  the  Lovers  183 

CHAPTER    XIX. 
The  Declaration  Read 193 

CHAPTER    XX. 
The  Fourth  of  July  in  Prospect 198 

CHAPTER     XXI. 
The    Fourth  in  Fact 204 

CHAPTER     XXII. 
The  Fact  Continued 206 

CHAPTER     XXIII. 
By  the  Way .   214 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 
The  Fact  Concluded 222 

CHAPTER    XXV. 
Mr.  Carradine  Consults  with  Mrs.  Johnson 230 

CHAPTER     XXVI. 
Ibe  Progress  of  Affairs 239 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
A  Financial  Crisis 249 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
The  Desperate  Remedy 264 

CHAPTER    XXIX. 
The  Courage  of— Love  ? 259 

CHAPTER    XXX. 
The  New  Home ' '  265 

CHAPTER    XXXI. 
The  Cousin 273 

CHAPTER   XXXII. 
For  Nature,  or   Against? 281 

CHAPTER   XXXIII. 
Death  in  Life 292 

CHAPTER   XXXIV. 
For  Better,  for   Worse 302 

CHAPTER    XXXV. 
Till  Death  Ua  do  Part 307 

CHAPTER    XXXVI. 
Old  Things  becoming  New 315 

CHAPTER    XXXVII. 
A  New  Nick  in  the  Circle 322 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 
Sally's  Liberation 329 

CHAPTER     XXXIX. 
The   Wedding-Day,  and  Place 337 

CHAPTER    XL. 
Home 347 

CHAPTER     XLI. 
Randy  under  the  Spread  Eagle's   Wings  353 

CHAPTER   XLII. 
Walking  among  the  Tombs 363 

CHAPTER   XLIII. 
Oliver's  Return 381 

CHAPTER    XLIV. 
Light  in  the  Valley 386 

CHAPTER    XLV. 
A  Day  of  the  Lord 395 


PETER    CARRADINE 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE      BOMB-BURST. 

THERE  was  a  great  uproar  in  the  red  schoolhouse  under 
the  hill,  whose  rod  was  swayed  by  Miss  Miranda  Roy. 

Every  little  tongue  not  paralyzed  by  fright  was  wagging, 
and  every  youthful  brow  discernible,  for  there  was  much  hid- 
ing of  faces  among  the  boys,  whose  prudence  exceeded  their 
curiosity,  and  the  girls,  who  were  ashamed  of  their  tears— 
every  brow  discernible,  I  say,  was  knit  with  displeasure 
or  with  rage,  and  a  desire  for  vengeance  was  eminent. 

The  weight  of  the  teacher's  displeasure  had  fallen,  this 
warm  spring  morning,  on  the  shoulders  of  little  Harry  John- 
son, who,  after  a  violent  struggle,  had  escaped  from  her 
hands,  and  now  was  flying  up  the  hill,  blazoned  with  fiery 
impressions — the  herald  of  his  own  wrongs  and  humiliation. 

Having  restored  the  school  to  something  like  order,  the 
teacher  continued  her  tasks.  But,  though  she  could  secure 
quiet,  she  could  not  command  feeling.  Grief  and  indigna- 
tion, and  a  desire  to  get  out  where  they  could  express  emo- 
tion without  danger,  all  this  might  have  been  evident  to 
Miranda  had  she  looked  with  questioning  along  the  rows  of 
little  faces.  Her  own  face  seemed,  to  the  young  eyes  that 
secretly  made  their  observations,  quite  awful  in  its  rigidity, 
and  never  before  did  her  voice  sound  so  harsh. 

She  would  have  the  children  of  Martindale  know  who 
reigned  in  this  school-room.  But,  secretly,  she  was  very 
uneasy  ;  not  because  she  saw  that  she  had  been  unjust. 
She  remembered  that  little  Harry  Johnson  had  not  merely 
run  home  to  his  father  and  mother.  In  comparison  with  the 


8  PETER    CARRADINE. 

whole  reality,  that  fact  was  a  trifle.  She  and  Mrs.  Johnson 
understood  each  other  so  well,  that  it  would  be  an  easy  mat- 
ter to  explain  this  difficulty.  But  Harry  had  likewise  gone 
home  to  Peter  Carradine,  who  lodged  with  his  tenants. 
Peter  Carradine,  most  impetuous,  self-willed  and  headstrong 
of  men,  whose  sole  plaything  in  this  world  was  Harry  John- 
son ! 

Thia  recollection  calmed  her — but  the  calmness  was  that 
of  the  ominous  lull  which  precedes  the  furious  storm-break. 
She  anticipated  the  worst  of  possibilities.  At  the  very 
least,  disgrace.  Her  flushed  face  paled,  and  it  was  not 
merely  by  supple  bending  before  the  authority  of  her  own 
imperious  will  that  she  went  through  the  next  hour  without 
exposing  to  the  children  her  troubled  state  of  mind. 

The  hour  had  hardly  ended,  when  she  heard  voices  in  the 
path  that  led  to  the  school-house,  and  she  needed  no  one  to 
announce  the  approach.  She  knew  that  Peter  Carradine  was 
coming  on,  leading  Harry  Johnson,  but  what  would  follow 
his  arrival,  she  dared  not  conjecture.  Hardly  knowing  what 
she  did,  she  dismissed  the  class  reciting,  and  the  children 
huddled  back  into  their  places.  Then  was  heard  the  quick, 
firm  tread  of  the  approaching  man,  and  the  teacher's  appre- 
hension was  swiftly  realized, 

Carradine  was  a  tall,  strongly-built  man,  of  swarthy  com- 
plexion— features  expressive  of  power  and  resolution — eyes 
specially  remarkable  for  their  revelations  of  the  rich,  rough 
nature  of  the  man.  They  were  now  filled  with  wrath  to  over- 
flowing. 

He  came  with  rapid  strides,  leading  Harry  Johnson  by 
the  hand,  and  Miranda  Roy  need  not  ask  herself  whether 
explanation  were  not  possible  that  would  justify  her  discip- 
line. But  though,  just  now,  really  afraid  of  Peter  Carra- 
dine, she  was  not  the  woman  to  betray  her  fear.  Self-pos- 
sessed, determined  on  civility,  she  stood  to  learn  the  mean- 
ing of  this  intrusion.  So  much  was  expressed  by  her  atti 
tide  as  she  awaited  the  outbreak. 

Up  to  this  day  and  hour,  a  very  different  relation  from 
that  now  having  ominous  suggestion,  had  been  maintained 
between  these  parties.  The  teacher  and  the  patron  were 
on  the  best  terms  possible — but  at  this  moment  he  was  not 
disposed  to  abate  his  wrath  for  the  sake  of  her  father,  the 
neighborhood,  or  herself.  Old  acquaintance,  and  friendship 


THE    BOMB-BURST.  9 

likewise,  went  for  nothing  when  his  sense  of  justice  became 
passionate. 

"Randy,"  said  he,  "  Miss  Roy !"  with  a  glance  around 
the  room,  he  fixed  his  stern  eyes  upon  her  ;  eyes  in  which 
now,  judgment  only  was  conspicuous.  "  When  I  nominated 
you  to  teach  here  in  this  district,  I  thought  you  was  fit  for 
the  place.  I've  had  my  suspicions  since  then  that  I  made  a 
mistake.  But  I  said  nothing  before — for  your  sake  and  your 
father's — but  other  folks  have  fathers,  beside  you.  You 
may  take  your  things  now,  and  go  home.  And  don't  ever 
ask  me  to  recommend  you  for  a  teacher  !"  Then,  turning 
shortly  from  her,  and  addressing  the  school,  "  Children,  you 
are  dismissed !  Go  home  and  tell  your  folks  what  has  hap- 
pened. Tell  the  truth  about  it.  Before  another  week  goes 
over,  I  shall  have  a  teacher  here  for  you.  Take  your  books 
and  go  off,  all  of  you." 

There  was  some  stir  among  the  children,  but  the  teacher, 
not  fearful  of  risking  anything  now,  when  she  saw  that  all 
was  lost,  said,  in  a  voice  not  elevated  above  its  usual  tone, 
with  unusual  dignity,  that  commanded  attention  and  produ- 
ced a  hush  : 

"  Children  !  I'm  your  teacher,  and  I  have  not  dismissed 
you.  Keep  your  places  !  Mr.  Carradine,  it  is  like  you  to 
hear  only  one  side." 

"  I  won't  take  that,  ma'am.  Seeing's  believing.  What 
does  a  man  need  to  hear,  when  he  can  see  that  boy's  back, 
done  by  a  woman's  hand  too  1  That  don't  need  an  argu- 
ment." 

"  I  punished  Harry  Johnson  for  his  disobedience,  any 
boy  or  girl  here  will  tell  you  that."  She  looked  around, 
but  every  boy  and  girl  was  looking  straight  at  Mr.  Carra- 
dine, evidently  anxious  to  evade  the  appeal. 

"  Well,  Randy,"  said  he,  speaking  more  quietly,  for  her 
self-control  had  its  influence  on  him,  "  your  ideas  about  pun- 
ishment won't  do  for  me,  that's  all.  There's  ways  of  manag- 
ing children — I  should  think  a  woman  would  know  it  without 
a  man's  telling  her — short  of  waling  flesh  like  that.  You're 
through  here  !  Children,  what  are  you  about  ?  Well,  stay 
we'll  put  it  to  vote.  That  will  be  according  to  order! 
Shall  Miss  Roy  go  on  teaching  you,  or  shall  I  look  about 
this  afternoon  and  see  if  I  can  find  a  new  teacher  ?  Go  or 
stay1?  Put  that  to  vote." 


10  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"  Go  !"  cried  one  of  the  elder  boys,  and  every  little  voice 
echoed,  or  seemed  to  echo,  that  decision. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Carradine,  for  the  first  time  smiling, 
and  he  wiped  the  great  drops  of  sweat  from  his  forehead  as 
he  added,  addressing  Miranda,  "  do  you  want  anything 
more  ?" 

What  right  had  a  woman  who  could  beat  a  child  to  any 
other  treatment  ?  He  was  at  that  moment  as  triumphantly 
victorious  as  if  he  had  carried  a  point  against  an  opponent 
at  the  polls  on  an  election  day. 

"  I  am  sure,"  answered  Miranda,  more  agitated  than  she 
had  seemed  to  be  at  any  moment  since  he  came  into  the 
school-room  ;  "  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  a 
nuisance.  Your  way  of  interfering  don't  agree  with  me 
When  you  get  another  teacher,  recollect  that." 

Mr.  Carradine  did  not  reply,  except  with  a  grim  smile, 
and  she  now  gathered  her  books  together  and  left  the  room. 

Finding  himself  alone  with  the  scholars,  who  had  shown 
no  disposition  to  move  while  the  discussion  lasted,  Mr.  Car- 
radine questioned  them  again,  and  satisfied  himself  that  he 
had  done  wisely  ;  then  he  repeated  his  promise  that  he 
would  at  once  supply  the  school  with  a  new  teacher.  The 
children  generally,  as  well  as  Miranda,  supposed  that  he 
was  thinking  of  Sally  Green,  the  Elder's  daughter.  They 
knew  of  no  other  person  eligible  to  the  office. 

But  Mr.  Carradine  was  looking  beyond  Martindale,  even 
as  far  as  Brighton.  He  calculated  always  on  finding  the 
very  thing  he  wanted.  His  ''Do  this!"  was  generally  an- 
swered by  a  "  Done  !"  and  most  of  the  scholars  were  so  im- 
pressed with  the  notion  of  his  authority,  that  not  one  of  them 
now  doubted  his  ability  to  perform  what  he  had  engaged  to 
do.  So  they  ran  out  in  various  directions  to  tell  their  folks, 
as  he  had  enjoined  upon  them. 

It  was  an  event  to  talk  over  that  afternoon — and  every 
farm-house  round  about  was  vocal  with  the  various  versions 
— and  not  every  woman,  neither  every  man,  endorsed  the 
deed  of  Mr.  Carradine.  Indeed,  the  fact  that  it  was  Carra- 
dine  who  had  taken  upon  him  to  administer  justice,  was 
enough  to  throw  suspicion  on  the  verdict  rendered ;  few 
persons  had  such  confidence  in  him  as  to  agree  willingly  to 
his  taking  on  himself  the  duties  of  counsel,  judge  and  jury. 
Yet  such  was  his  position  in  the  neighborhood,  and  espe- 


THE    BOMB-BURST.  11 

cially  towards  the  school-house,  that  any  person  might  safe- 
ly have  prophesied  that  his  decisions,  however  aggravating, 
would  not  be  really  interfered  with. 

Two  brothers,  named  Jobson,  lived  opposite  the  school- 
house,  some  distance  from  it,  down  the  road.  The  elder 
brother  was  a  bachelor  and  kept  the  Martindale  tavern,  this 
same  little,  low  frame  house,  you  see  of  what  humble  pre- 
tensions. But  it  is  a  marvellous  corner  ;  a  glorious  place 
to  gossip  round  and  drink  at — there  is  also,  close  at  hand, 
a  spring,  whose  bright,  pure  water  ever  flows  into  the 
trough,  where  travellers  can  give  their  horses  drink — so  all 
the  purpose  an  inn  could  serve  in  Martindale  is  answered. 
Jobson,  the  blacksmith,  is  the  inn-keeper's  younger  brother, 
and  between  the  two  the  mail  is  distributed  three  times  a 
week  to  the  town  of  Martindale,  for  one  or  other  of  the  bro- 
thers is  postmaster — the  inn-keeper,  it  is  generally  suppos- 
ed, but  the  blacksmith  appears  to  be  the  more  reliable  man 
of  the  two,  and  it  is  he  who  generally  opens  the  mail  and 
makes  it  up  at  stated  intervals.  The  blacksmith's  shop  ad- 
joins the  tavern,  and  idler?  seem  to  be  as  fond  of  loitering 
round  its  door  as  on  the  tavern  steps,  especially  if  they  are 
under  no  immediate  necessity  for  grog — for  Senior  Jobson's 
aspect  does  most  conspicuously  proclaim  his  belief  that  self- 
indulgence  is  the  end  of  living  ;  so  that  a  wretch  whose 
credit  was  declining,  pockets  empty,  stomach  craving,  really 
manifested  no  mean  degree  of  courage  when  he  showed  him- 
self on  the  tavern  steps.  "  What  will  you  have  ?"  was  a 
question  as  startling  and  confounding  as  could  well  be  pro- 
posed under  such  circumstances ;  especially  when  it  pro- 
ceeded from  a  person  of  Senior  Jobson's  aspect,  whose  full- 
ness and  unbroken  self-possession  seemed  so  scornful  of  all 
emptiness  and  want. 

The  brothers  were  sunning  themselves  on  the  tavern 
steps,  Senior  Jobson  portly,  glowing,  jocose.  Junior  Job- 
son,  the  likeness  of  his  elder  brother  as  he  was  in  his  prime, 
before  he  took  to  drink  and  idleness,  (I  mean  not  to  drunken 
laziness,)  a  fair-faced,  light  haired  man,  irascible,  but  with- 
al kindly  in  his  aims,  and  as  good  a  blacksmith  as  ever  man- 
aged bellows.  Oliver  Savage  was  cutting  initials  in  one  of 
the  posts  of  the  rough  stoop — besides  these,  the  Indian  Doc- 
tor, famous  for  his  root  remedies,  sat  on  the  steps,  to  rest 
after  his  long  foot  journey 


12  PETER   CARRADINE. 

Towards  this  group  came  the  blacksmith's  boy  on  a  run  ; 
but,  instead  of  halting  as  he  approached  the  house,  he  made 
past  at  full  speed. 

"Holloa  there  !"  shouted  Junior.  "  What  are  you  homo 
this  time  of  day  for,  sir  ?  Didn't  I  say  I'd  flog  you,  Ethan 
Allen,  if  I  caught  you  again  out  o'  hours  ?" 

"  They  aint  no  school.  We've  had  a  row.  Teacher's 
gone  home.  Mr.  Carradine  sent  her  !"  cried  the  boy,  as  if 
he  saw  the  phantom  of  a  raw-hide  flourishing  above  his  head. 

"What's  that  1  Come  here,  sir  !"  The  men's  ears  were 
well  set  when  the  child  came  nearer.  Every  one  of  them 
got  up,  and  they  stood  round  the  reporter,  after  the  fashion 
of  idle  men  hungry  for  news,  the  most  incorrigible  gossips 
in  the  world,  by  whom  scandal  thrives.  Let  the  obloquy  fall 
no  longer  on  tea-drinking  old  women.  Lift  up  your  heads, 
dear,  venerable  dames,  and  take  an  extra  cup,  while  the 
unbelieving  go  to  prove  my  words  at  the  next  corner. 

The  blacksmith's  son,  feeling  himself  quite  secure  now, 
for  he  understood,  child  though  he  was,  the  expression  of 
the  company,  that  he  stood  high  in  favor  at  this  moment, 
gave  his  version  of  the  occurrence  in  the  school-room. 

Then  said  Oliver  Savage  : 

"  That's  like  Pete  Carradine.  A  devilish  old  tyrant,  any 
how  you  can  fix  him." 

"  Six  of  one,  half  dozen  of  'tother,  it's  my  opinion,"  said 
the  blacksmith.  "Randy's  pretty  stiff,  let  her  be  sot  once 
in  her  way.  You  must  fight  or  go  round.  How  d'ye  'spose 
Roy  has  got  on  with  her  all  by  'mself  so  ?  He's  a  meek, 
peaceable  man,  Roy  is." 

"  Roy — he's  a  chicken.  Thank'ee  !  thank'ee  !  I'm  be- 
holden to  ye,  sir,  for  letting  me  live,  ye  know,"  whined  Se- 
nior Jobson.  Then  he  broke  into  a  loud  laugh.  "  Lord  ! 
such  a  toad  ;  I  wonder  if  he  won't  set  to  praying  off  this 
great  evil." 

The  Indian  Doctor,  a  tall,  slender  fellow,  yet  powerful 
and  wily — famous  for  his  cures  of  the  sickly  and  the  weakly, 
and,  above  all,  the  credulous,  now  spoke  : 

"  Such  a  girl  is  managed  easily  enough  ;  it's  only  to  know 
the  way.  You  might  lead  her  now,  like  a  lamb — but  as  for 
driving  of  her,  or  even  interfering — bless  your  soul  !  know 
better !  Old  Roy  knows  a  thing  or  two  besides  praying 


THE    BOMB-BURST.  13 

Senior.  By  George,  though,  I'd  like  to  have  seen  that  fight ! 
I'll  be  bound  she  went  off  dry-eyed  from  it." 

"  Did  she,  Ethan  Allen  1  Did  Handy  ?  Did  she  cry  any, 
you  know,  sonny  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  young  screamer,  you  does,  if  any  one,"  said 
the  uncle.  "  He's  got  an  eye  in  his  head  for  seeing,  Ethan 
Allen  has." 

"  Cry  !"  exclaimed  Oliver  Savage,  and  he  turned  on  his 
heel,  apparently  disgusted  with  the  ignorance  that  could 
propose  the  question. 

"  No,  she  didn't  cry  none,"  replied  the  child. 

"  But  they  talked  out  pretty  sharp  and  brisk,  pretty  loud, 
I  guess  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  No,  it  was  as  still  as  anything.  You  could  a'heard  a 
pin  droppit." 

"  He's  got  'em  under  his  thumb,"  said  the  innkeeper. 

"  Yes,  sir,  there  couldn't  be  a  tighter  squeeze,"  observed 
Oliver  Savage,  with  a  knowing  look  at  Senior  Jobson.  "  If 
he's  the  mind  to  do  it,  they'll  have  to  look  up  new  quarters 
before  they're  a  week  older.  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  /would,  then,  Oliver,"  said  the  blacksmith.  "  Carra- 
dine's  ekel  to  anything,  they  say ;  but  there's  p'ints  where 
he  stops  short.  I've  seen  that  man  go  on  tippitoes  all  for 
to  save  ant-hills.  If  he's  that  keerful  for  to  save  a  ver- 
niin — " 

"  That  isn't  it,"  interrupted  the  doctor.  "  The  thing  is 
n't  whether  he'll  turn  'em  out,  d'ye  see,  but  whether  they'll 
be  willing  to  stay  in.  I'd  hate  to  have  old  Roy  and  Randy 
moving  out  of  the  district  at  the  bid  of  any  man." 

"  Don't  borry  trouble,  Tom  ;  Martindale  ground  will  be 
under  old  Sam's  feet,  till  Martindale  grass  grows  over  his 
head.  You  couldn't  root  him  out  with  a  lever  short  of  the 
one  that  pries  the  old  world  up  when  it  gets  stuck  among 
the  stars." 

"  It's  a  dodge  that  won't  be  come,  that  won't,"  exclaimed 
Oliver  Savage,  walking  up  and  down  the  stoop,  that  was 
well  marked  with  tobacco  juice,  owing  to  the  unremitting 
efforts  of  the  four  men,  half  an  hour  ago,  spitting  at  a 
mark.  "  The  town  of  Martindell  wouldn't  allow  it,  sir — it 
would  rise  up  against  it." 

"  You  talk  like  a  fool,  Savage  ;  what's  Martindell  got  to 
do  with  old  Sam  Roy  and  his  doings  1  I  don't  see." 


14  PETER   CARKADINK. 

•"  You  don't !  Then  try  to  get  up  a  dance  here  in  your 
old  tumble-down,  without  Raud}r.  You  wouldn't  want  ano- 
ther proof." 

"  George  !  you  ought  to  know  what  girls  are  good  for  !" 
said  Senior,  with  a  vast  deal  of  contempt  in  his  retort.  "You 
young  carpetty  knight !" 

Junior,  perhaps,  heard  a  quarrel  in  the  distance,  for  his 
brother  was  in  one  of  his  provoking  moods  this  afternoon  ; 
and  he  asked  a  question  which  he  could  as  well  have  an- 
swered as  any  other  man. 

"  He's  got  a  moggage,  has  he,  Carradine  has,  on  old  Sam- 
uel's place  ?  I'm  sorry — I'm  right  sorry." 

"  Sorry  ! — I  wish  I  had  your  money  !"  exclaimed  Oliver. 
"  I'd  pay  the  old  curmudgeon  afore  lie  was  half  an  hour  old- 
er, and  take  the  moggage  myself.  But  he  wouldn't  give  it 
up  !  He's  swallering  everything  in  his  reach,  and  Koy's 
land  just  fits  into  his  farm.  He  wants  it,  and  he'll  have  it. 
That's  so." 

"  Lord  !  Oliver,  you're  getting  tremenjus.  There  won't 
be  any  living  'long  side  of  you  when  your  turn  comes.  Oh! 
you  needn't  fire  up  that  way.  I  expect,  for  one,  you'll  be 
rolling  round  in  your  chariot  yet,  like  old  Squire  Martin 
and  the  best  of  'era.  "What  was  you  cut  out  in  your  shape 
for,  if  you  wasn't  born  for  a  gcn'leman  ?" 

Apparently  doubtful  as  to  how  Senior  intended  these 
words  to  be  taken,  Oliver  was  dubious  how  he  should  take 
them.  He  concluded  to  believe  the  prophecy  a  true  one, 
and  was  confirmed  in  his  choice  when,  on  looking  down  the 
road,  he  saw  Sally  Green. 

He  pointed  towards  her,  and  was  about  to  speak,  then  he 
changed  his  mind,  leaped  over  the  steps,  and  took  the  road, 
walking  with  rapid  strides. 

"  Puppy  !"  said  the  innkeeper. 

"  But  the  girls  think  there's  nobody  like  Oliver  Savage," 
said  his  brother. 

"  Of  course  they  do.  There's  Sally  Green  !  Suppose  she 
didn't  know  he  stood  here  on  the  steps,  ready  to  follow  her 
lead?" 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  'em,"  said  the  doctor.  "  We've  been 
young,  all  of  us — " 

"  You  !  when  Adam  was  a  yearling  !  But,  the  devil's  in 
it,  you  havn't  a  gray  hair  yet,  and  you  never  will  have.  I 


THE    BOMB-BURST.  15 

believe  you're  the  wandering  Jew  !     Come,  take  something, 
Boneset." 

"I'm  your  man  for  that,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  laugh, 
and  he  followed  Senior  to  the  bar-room,  and  there  they  sat 
drinking  till  night.  It  was  a  rare  time,  that,  for  hearing 
the  secrets  of  the  country  round  about.  Boneset  had  them 
at  command,  and  Senior  Jobson  was  a  receptacle  for  such 
things,  to  be  sure  !  When  ships  go  down  with  all  their  trea- 
sure into  the  ocean's  depths,  the  grandeur  of  the  sepulchre 
is  at  least  equal  to  the  horror  of  it  ;  and  divers  have  our 
honor ;  but  how  is  it  when  we  know  that  scavengers  fish 
out  from  the  sewers  some  fair  woman's  plain  gold  marriage- 
ring,  or  the  diamond  witness  of  betrothal,  the  jewelled  min- 
iature, the  baby's  coral,  manifold  pledges  to  be  redeemed, 
or  forever  unredeemed  !  There  should  have  been  misgiv- 
ings in  the  hearts  of  women  while  this  doctor  sipped  his 
brandy  and  water,  since  pitch  defiles.  But  no  !  they  trusted 
him,  because  his  office  was  a  sacred  one — the  priest  com- 
mands confession,  though  vilest  of  animals  he  be. 

Junior  Jobson,  meanwhile,  had  returned  to  his  shop,  and 
was  working  at  his  forge,  and  meditating  on  the  hard  case  of 
Samuel  Hoy,  when  the  old  man  rode  up  to  his  door  and 
startled  him  by  a  little  familiar  laugh,  with  which  he  pre- 
faced what  he  had  to  say  whenever  he  was  pleased — and  he 
was  particularly  pleased  just  now  to  find  the  blacksmith  in 
his  shop,  for  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  and  the  bar- 
room was  the  last  place  he  liked  to  visit,  even  though  look- 
ing for  a  man  ;  necessity  seemed  hardly  to  justify  the  cros- 
sing of  that  threshold. 

"  Junior,  here's  a  little  job  for  you,  if  you've  got  the  time. 
Robin  took  to  limping  a  mile  back,  down  there  by  the 
bridge,  a  stun  maybe,  or  a  nail — I  can't  see — I  left  my  eyes 
to  hum ;  feel  there,  that  makes  him  wince,"  while  he  spoke 
he  handed  Robin's  right  fore-foot  over  to  the  blacksmith's 
inspection. 

"  Yes'ir — that's  a  stun — sharp  as  glass  too — -wait,  I'll 
fetch  him.  There,  sir  !  Now,  old  Robin  !"  Honest  Junior 
having  rendered  this  swift  service,  stroked  Robin's  neck 
with  kindly  hand  ;  then  he  looked  at  Samuel,  dubious  and 
uneasy.  "  You  won't  be  limping  any  furder,  old  Robin  ! 
You  don't  come  from  home  direc,  then  1"  he  said,  turning 
from  the  horse  to  the  master. 


16  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"  I've  been  down  to  Brighton,"  answered  Roy.  "  Beats 
all — to  think  that  the  housen  of  the  Elder's  stood  there — 
and  them  popples  all  growing  fine — ere  a  tree  was  cut  on 
Brighton  ground  !  And  I've  seen  it  all  done — canal  dug — 
railroad  built — and,  this  afternoon,  what  was  it  but  a  balloon 
going  up,  with  a  party  aboard  !  We're  getting  hard  on,  Ju- 
nior. I  shan't  see  it — but  your  boy  may.  Says  I  to  Handy, 
says  I,  be  keerful,  you're  a  trainin'  up  the  childern  for  a 
great  day  of  the  Lord  ;  and  I  say  the  same  to  you,  be  keer- 
t'ul.  It's  a  resk  you  run,  Junior,  bringing  up  your  boys 
among  whiskey  barr'ls." 

Speaking  thus,  Samuel  mounted  his  horse  again,  not 
doubting  that  his  warning  would  be  taken  kindly.  Whether 
it  would  be  so  taken  or  not,  there  were  times  when  the  old 
man  felt  free  to  speak  his  mind  in  warning  and  counsel  as  a 
privileged  person,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 

"  Hold  up,  there  !"  cried  Junior,  flashing  fire  he  would  re- 
pent of  in  five  minutes.  Roy's  reflections  on  the  house 
seemed  to  him  an  insult  to  his  elder  brother,  of  whom  he 
was  so  proud.  "  You  brung  up  your  girl  'cording  to  your 
notion,  I  reckon  ;  what's  the  reason,  then,  she  must  git  into 
a  row  all  of  teach'ing  in  a  quiet  room,  some  consid'able  dis- 
tance from  the  smell  of  whisky  barr'ls  ?" 

"  What's  that,  Junior  ;  what's  that  you're  saying  ?"  asked 
Samuel — and  the  blacksmith  thought  that  the  voice  of  the 
old  man  trembled,  that  his  face  grew  pale,  and  he  was  sorry 
he  had  spoken. 

"  Nothing,"  said  he,  dropping  Robin's  bridle,  and  turning 
half  away. 

"  You  said  a  row — what  ?    Who's?" 

"  Nothing  ;  only  she's  had  a  misunderstanding  time  with 
Carradine — 'twould  take  a  angel  to  get  on  peaceable  with  him. 
Yes,  sir,  it  would  !  And  if  Randy  wouldn't  take  it  from 
him,  there  ain't  the  man  or  woman  in  this  town  '11  wonder. 
So  she's  gone  hum,  and  there's  to  be  a  new  teacher.  That's 
what  Ethan  Allen  said,  but  they  don't  know  nothing,  there 
children,  and  I'm  thinking  you'll  find  it  all  right  when  you 
get  up  to  the  farm.  I'm  a  blasted  fool  for  trying  to  give  you 
information  I  ain't  got  myself!  That's  all  Mr.  Roy." 

"  I'm  beholden  to  you,  Junior,  for  setting  Robin  right. 
Get  up,  Robin — we'll  be  home  now,  sudden,"  and  under  the- 


THE    BOMB-BURST.  17 

X 

tightened  rein  and  the  mild  voice's  injunction,  the  old  gray 
trotted  off. 

"  It's  a  tongue,"  said  he,  while  his  visage  lengthened, 
"  that  never  wagged  to  purpose  but  once,  or  I  disremember. 
That  was  when  I  telled  old  Carradine  to  take  his  horse  to 
the  devil  to  be  shod,  then  he'd  be  sure  to  get  his  work  well 
done.  But  he's  a  curious  critter.  He  took  it  for  a  compli- 
ment, I  do  believe.  And  it's  certain  I've  had  more  dollars 
from  him  than  quarters  from  another  farmer  round.  It's  fair 
to  hear  both  sides  !  I  wouldn't  want  any  one  chastising  of 
my  boy  like  as  I  would  myself,  or  mother.  Randy's  overly 
quick.  But,  there  !  it's  none  of  my  business.  I'm  sorry  for 
old  Sam." 

Robin's  gentle  trot  brought  the  rider  duly  up  the  road  and 
down  the  lane.  Randy  had  been  waiting  the  return  with  an 
anxiety  from  which  she  vainly  sought  to  rid  herself.  She 
had  rehearsed  again  and  again  the  story  that  must  be  told, 
and,  while  adhering  to  the  truth,  she  had  modified  and  re- 
arranged the  statement  of  ugly  facts  which  any  showing 
must  prove  ugly.  The  sound  of  Robin's  hoofs,  striking 
against  the  stones  in  the  lane,  would  have  disturbed  any 
meditated  version  of  the  story.  She  knew,  as  well  as  her 
father,  that  peace  with  Mr.  Carradine  was  all-important — 
that  dismissal  from  the  school,  under  these  circumstances, 
was  not  only  disgrace  to  her,  but  might  be  ruin  also.  And 
she  must  tell  him  that  war  had  been  waged,  and  that  Mr. 
Carradine  had  punished  her  for  her  school  discipline.  Her 
pride  was  outraged  and  resentful ;  and  yet  that  did  not  hin- 
der her  from  seeing  other  results  that  could  not  fail  to  move 
her  more  than  even  the  displeasure  of  the  neigborhood, 
and  her  own  humiliation.  She  knew  how  painful  to  her 
father  was  all  strife  and  misunderstanding  ,  her  work  in  this 
world  had  never  been  that  of  a  peacemaker,  but  no  disturb- 
ance in  which  she  had  ever  taken  a  part  had  an  aspect  seri- 
ous as  this.  Sick  at  heart,  she  turned  away  from  her  re- 
flections as  her  father  rode  past  the  kitchen  window,  on  his 
way  to  the  barn  ;  the  tea-kettle  was  boiling,  she  had  only  the 
tea  to  make — all  would  be  ready  for  him  when  he  should 
come  in.  And  now  he  came  in  his  usual  slow,  cauti- 
ous way,  that  left  nothing  unheeded  or  undone  ;  at  the 
spring  he  stopped  to  drink,  in  the  shed  to  wash  his  hands — 
this  ceremony  seemed  to  be  almost  a  rite  with  him,  at  least 


18  PETER   CARRADINE. 

he  performed  it  with  an  Israelitish  scrupulosity — but  at 
last  he  was  sitting  in  his  usual  place,  and  Miranda  was  pour- 
ing tea  for  him,  as  she  had  done  now  these  ten  years,  since  her 
mother  died.  But  never  had  the  father  and  daughter  sat 
down  at  that  board  under  such  constraint  as  at  this  moment 
oppressed  them.  The  one  thought  that  stood  out  conspicu- 
ous beyond  others,  in  the  mind  of  Samuel,  was  Junior  Job- 
son's  reproachful  taunt ;  certainly  he  had  brought  up  Miran- 
da since  her  mother's  death  ;  he  had  not  lived  unforgetful 
of  his  obligations  as  a  Christian  man,  and  the  child's  conver- 
sion had  been  the  burden  of  his  daily  prayers.  Jobson's 
words  seemed  to  show  him  that  Miranda  did  no  credit  to  hia 
teaching.  He  knew  her  faults — knew  they  were  many — and 
that  they  were  precisely  such  as  would  expose  her  to  sus- 
picions ;  he  knew,  besides,  that  she  was  greatly  better  than 
she  seemed  ;  but,  perhaps  he  had  been  to  blame  ;  maybe 
he  had  not  done  for  her  what  he  might — this  thought  it  was 
that  made  his  gravity  so  solemn  that  Miranda,  from  moment 
to  moment,  was  persuaded  more  and  more  that  what  she  had 
to  confess  was  no  secret  from  him. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "  did  you  hear  any  bad  news  down 
in  Brighton  ?" 

"  No — no.  It  was  a  stirring  time  down  there — noise 
enough,  and  crowds  o'  people.  To  see  the  balloon,  of  course 
—to  see  the  balloon." 

"  I  didn't  know  about  it.     What  balloon  ?" 

"  The  mammoth,  they  called  it,  some  such  name.  There 
was  a  party  went  up  in  it.  I  wish  you  had  been  with  me, 
Handy.  It  was  a  sight  to  see." 

"  It  wasn't  to  be,"  she  answered  with  a  sigh.  "  I  had  to 
stay  home,  and  quarrel  with  Mr.  Carradine  !  First  or 
last,  it's  got  to  come — and  there  it  is !  We  might  have  ex- 
pected it — but  if  we  didn't,  there  it  is,  just  the  same." 

"Have  you  quit  the  school,  then,  Randy?" 

"  Quit  the  school  ! — he  put  me  out  of  it!  He's  going  to 
get  a  new  teacher  !" 

Randy's  face  turned  red  and  pale  while  she  spoke  thus, 
but  she  did  not  for  an  instant  shrink  from  her  father's  stead- 
fast gaze. 

"Put  you  out  of  if?"  asked  he.  "And  did  he  do  it, 
Randy  ?" 

"  Told  me  to  go,  to  be  sure — " 


THE    BOMB-BURST.  19 

"  Oh — I  thought,  if  he  laid  hands  on  you,"  said  the 
old  man,  and  it  almost  seemed  as  if  something  like  anger 
and  threatening  were  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  but  the  hint 
at  passion  was  so  very  remote  and  vague,  that  it  hardly 
thrilled  the  heart  of  Randy. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  she,  "  he  knew  better.  I  don't 
think  there's  danger  of  that  from  any  one.  I'm  safe  so  far. 
But  they'll  all  say  what  they  like.  Because  I  punished  Harry 
Johnson." 

"  Randy,  it's  good  to  bear  the  yoke  in  your  youth." 

"  Father,  what's  that  to  do  with  it  ?  Mr.  Carradine — you 
know  what  he  is.  It  isn't  for  myself  I  care.  There's  the 
mortgage,  and  living  right  here  under  his  feet,  and  him  to 
trample  on  you  if  it  suits  him  ;  and  there's  nothing  would  suit 
him  better  than  to  worry  old  age  and  insult  women  !" 

"  There  !  don't!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  terrified  at  the 
spirit  with  which  Miranda  spoke,  obliged  as  he  was  to  own 
that  there  was  some  truth  in  what  she  said.  "You  know, 
daughter,  what  we  talked  about  'tother  night,  and  what  you 
owned  and  promised.  It's  getting  the  upper  hand — put  it 
down — put  it  down." 

Miranda  drank  a  cup  of  tea,  and  filled  it  again  before  she 
spoke.  Her  voice  trembled  when  she  said  : 

"  If  it's  got  the  upper  hand  so  as  to  make  a  ruined  man  of 
you,  father,  I'll  never  expect  nor  ask  forgiveness  in  this 
world." 

"  Oh,  it's  little  odds,  then,  where  we  be,  if  our  hearts  are 
right  and  we're  together,  Randy.  It  won't  be  as  you're  fearing, 
I'm  led  to  believe  it  won't.  I'm  free  to  say  it  won't.  I  have 
been  young  and  now  am  old,  yet  never  saw  I  the  righteous 
forsaken,  nor  his  seed  a  begging  bread." 

"  He's  going  to  get  a  teacher  up  from  Brighton." 

"  He  is.  A  teacher  up  from  Brighton  to  teach  in  the  red 
school'us  ?" 

"  So  that's  all,"  said  Randy,  much  relieved  now  that 
the  whole  business  was  before  her  father,  and  that  he  took 
the  intelligence  so  quietly,  for  though  assured  in  her  mind 
that  he  would  take  it  thus,  she  had  no  peace  until  she  saw 
the  proof. 

Having  spoken  thus,  she  fell  back  on  her  own  reflections  ; 
and  her  father  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  his,  for  they  finish- 
ed their  meal  in  silence  :  then  he  went  and  sat  down  in  his 


20  PETER   CARRADINE. 

arm-chair,  by  the  door,  'according  to  his  evening  custom, 
when  the  farm  work  was  not  urgent. 

Between  her  doubt  as  to  whether  Mr.  Carradine  would 
carry  out  his  indignation  against  herself  ir»to  persecution  of 
her  father,  and  her  doubt  as  to  whether,  if  he  showed  no 
such  disposition,  it  became  them  to  remain  in  their  present 
position  quietly,  his  debtors,  the  daughter  was  sufficiently 
disturbed. 

Serene  as  the  course  of  her  father's  reflections  seemed  to 
be,  the  old  man  was,  in  fact,  greatly  troubled.  Most  of  all 
by  the  impression  made  by  Junior's  run  at  Randy.  The 
father  needed  no  such  testimony  as  the  day  past  had  afford- 
ed; he  knew  what  Randy's  temper  was.  Its  flashings  and 
fires  had  alarmed  and  troubled  him  too  many  times  to  admit 
a  doubt  of  the  blame  under  which  she  stood  at  present.  But 
he  knew  moreover,  the  swift  repentance  that  generally  fol- 
lowed any  over-hasty  word,  or  act;  he  believed,  with  all  his 
heart,  in  her  kindliness  and  generosity,  and  uprightness — 
he  knew  that  she  was  never  cruel,  nor  deliberately  unjust  , 
and  the  wrong  she  did  herself  in  these  explosions  always 
appeared  to  him  far  greater  than  she  could  inflict  on 
others.  He  had,  moreover,  the  most  delightful  confidence 
in  her  ability  to  teach.  He  could  not  imagine  a  kind  of  work 
to  which  she  would  be  incompetent.  Of  late,  he  had  thought 
that  he  could  see  some  evidences  in  her  of  awakened  re- 
ligious feeling,  and  he  had  great  hopes  of  Randy — let  her 
once  put  on  the  "  easy  yoke  of  a  profession,"  and  all  would 
be  well.  The  ardent  spirit  that  in  any  service  must  make 
itself  evident,  would  be  a  shining  light  if  it  but  once  caught 
the  flame  of  a  holy  fire.  Let  him  once  behold  that  alive, 
generons  and  courageous  spirit  serving  in  the  temple  of  the 
Lord,  he  would  close  his  eyes  in  peace.  Sitting  there  at  rest 
in  the  mild  spring  evening,  looking  over  the  fair  land- 
scape, the  woods  and  fields,  and  the  long  road,  winding  as  a 
river,  his  faith  and  hope  did  not  forsake  him.  And  he  pray- 
ed silently,  what  he  repeated  afterwards  in  the  evening  sup- 
plication with  which  he  ended  each  day,  "  Oh  !  Lord,  let  no 
witness  go  forth  out  of  us  distracting  to  thy  cause  !  Let  not 
the  ungodly  rise  up  agin  thy  servants  to  say,  '  There  ! 
there  !'  and  shame  our  profession.  If  we  have  offended  thee, 
oh !  give  us  to  repent,  and  confess,  and  make  peace, 
wherever  we  go.  Don't  forsake  us  !  don't  let  us  forsake 


THE    BOMB-BUEST.  21 

thee  !  Don't  let  our  pride  or  our  wrath  turn  into  hate  agin 
any  human  creetur,  for  whom  thou  sheddest  precious 
blood." 

And  thus  only  he  could  find  it  in  his  heart  to  reprove  her, 
by  a  confession  of  sin,  and  prayer  for  deliverance  to  ONE  so 
high  above  them,  so  mighty  above  all  men,  that  the  heart 
must  have  been  harder,  and  the  will  more  perverse  than 
Miranda's,  to  listen  without  joining  in  the  amen  that  can  e 
from  the  old  man  with  a  deepened  sense  of  his  helplessness, 
and  a  stronger  grasping  at  the  sacred  promises. 

So  the  night  closed  over  them.  Over  the  old  log-house 
with  its  framed  additions,  whose  corners  were  decorated  by 
hop-vines,  whose  windows,  ornamented  by  a  lattice  work  of 
twine,  through  which  the  stems  of  the  sweet-brier  were  wo- 
ven. Over  the  fine  broad  field,  in  whose  midst  stood  the 
comfortable,  homely  dwelling.  How  quietly  over  all  animate 
things  within  the  ownership  of  Samuel  Roy  ; — good,  patient, 
humble  man,  proud  of  but  one  thing  in  this  world,  his 
daughter,  how  sadly  over  him  I 


22  PETER   CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LOOKING    FOR    A    SUBSTITUTE. 

MR.  CAB.RADINE  was  a  mau  of  authority,  so  far  as  the  school 
was  concerned.  The  building  had  been  erected  at  his  ex- 
pense, on  his  own  land,  and  he  had  given  the  grove  in  the 
rear,  including  the  spring,  for  a  play -ground  ;  and  the  farm- 
ers round  about  seemed  so  willing  that  he  should  take  the 
burden  of  the  expense  upon  himself,  that  they  could  not  in 
reason  object  to  his  show  of  authority  in  that  regard. 
Neither  was  it  surprising  that  he  should  sometimes  as- 
sume as  much  authority  in  the  management  as  others 
would  allow.  He  was  one  of  the  money  powers  of  Mar- 
tindale  ;  the  most  liberal  among  them,  and  as  he  was  not 
disposed  to  make  himself  obnoxious,  he  had  not  to  complain 
of  any  reasonable  opposition  to  his  plans  and  management. 
No  charge  of  interference  had  been  brought  against  him  up 
to  the  opening  of  this  record. 

Dexterously  and  promptly  the  man's  judgment  had  served 
him  iu  this  instance,  and  he  came  from  the  conflict  with  a 
sense  of  justice  done,  not  at  all  with  the  consciousness  that 
the  greater  had  subdued  the  weaker ;  that  the  man  had 
managed  the  woman. 

Always  a  man  of  few  words  and  prompt  action,  he  har- 
nessed his  team  that  afternoon  and  drove  down  to  Brighton. 
Mrs.  Johnson  went  with  him,  but  not  as  an  assistant  in  the 
business.  Neither  (for  she  liked  Miranda,)  was  she  quite  easy 
at  the  turn  the  day  had  taken.  But  she  knew  better  than 
to  interfere  \vith  Mr.  Carradine  in  his  present  mood — she 
thought  she  knew  better,  and  held  her  tongue,  even  when 
her  mother-heart  had  the  generosity  to  suggest  that  possibly 
he  had  been  over  hasty.  Handy  had  been  strict  and  stern; 
but  if  she  had  been  cruelly  unjust,  she  would  certainly  have 
been  quick  to  own  it.  So,  between  her  conflicting  conclu- 
sions, Mrs.  Johnson,  like  a  prudent  woman,  modified  her 


LOOKING    FOR    A    SUBSTITUTE.  23 

sense  of  injury,  and  rode  to  town  in  quiet.  Not  as  an  as- 
sistant in  the  business,  as  I  said  ;  Mr.  Carradine  felt  his 
competence  to  conduct  that  alone.  She  had  her  shopping  to 
attend  to,  and  he  left  her  at  the  grocer's  before  he  drove  on 
to  the  house  of  Brown,  the  School  Commissioner. 

Now  the  Commissioner's  daughter  had  graduated  but  a 
few  weeks  since  at  the  Brighton  Academy,  as  also  had  the 
daughter's  friend,  one  Mercy  Fuller,  who  was  spending  part 
of  the  vacation  in  the  family. 

No  sooner  had  Mr.  Carradine  made  known  his  wish  than 
the  Commissioner  struck  his  hands  together  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Here's  a  circumstance  !  The  girl  you  want  is  within 
beck  and  call,  asking,  not  an  hour  ago,  for  a  situation  ;  they 
want  her  at  the  Academy,  but  she's  tired,  and  needs  rest, 
and  if  she  could  get  some  place  in  the  country,  that's  what 
she  was  saying.  I'll  call  her  !  she'll  answer  for  herself." 

"  Wait,"  said  Carradine.  "  You've  seen  Sally  Green. — 
Is  your  young  lady  like  her  ?" 

The  Commissioner  laughed. 

"  Is  that  the  kind  you  want  ?" 

"  Do  I  want  to  breed  a  murrain  up  in  Martindale  ?  But, 
look  here — she  came  out  of  the  Academy  too  !" 

"  What's  bred  in  the  bone,  sir,  will  come  out  in  the 
flesh.  Cure  a  gangrene,  will  you,  by  a  plaster  ?  But  if  you 
can  get  Miss  Fuller  to  say  she  will  teach  your  school,  don't 
you  stand  for  the  price,  that's  all." 

"  Bring  her  round,"  said  Carradine. 

When  she  came  into  the  office,  Brown,  explaining  by  the 
way  the  nature  of  the  business  on  which  he  had  said  he 
wished  to  talk  with  her,  she  seemed  to  be  surprised,  as  peo- 
ple given  to  wishing  usually  are,  when  they  find  themselves 
on  a  sudden  taken  at  their  word. 

But,  quickly  coming  to  an  understanding  with  herself, 
Miss  Fuller  decided  that,  if  she  found,  on  going  over  to 
Martindale,  that  tho  place  satisfied  her,  she  would  at  once 
accept  the  situation  ;  pleasant  scenery,  comfort,  independ- 
ence, and  reasonable  wages,  were  the  conditions  for  which 
sha  stipulated,  with  a  clearness  and  a  promptness,  which 
led  Carradine  to  conclude,  "  There  is  a  woman  of  busi- 
ness.— she  don't  look  like  it  neither." 

When  he  had  given  his  explanation  of  the  needs  of  the 
school,  omitting,  however,  to  state  the  reason  of  its  need 


24  PETER    CARRADIXE. 

Mr.  Brown  promised  that  he  would,  the  next  day,  drive 
over  to  Martindale  with  the  young  ladies,  and  Miss  Fuller 
should  then  give  her  final  answer. 

Thus  easily  matters  were  arranged,  and  Carradine  drove 
away  from  the  Commissioner's  door,  feeling  a  tolerable  as 
surance  that  the  business  was  as  good  as  settled. 

"  Did  you  ask  the  questions  you  said  you  would  of 
Brown  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Johnson,  curious  to  know  greatly 
more  concerning  this  interview  than  Mr.  Carradine  would 
be  likely  to  communicate. 

"  Why,  no,"  be  answered,  as  pleased  at  the  reminder  as 
positive  people  usually  are  when  their  deeds  have  fallen 
short  of  their  promises.  "  I  asked  Brown  if — "  here  his 
prudence  suggested  that  he  had  best  withhold  the  name  of 
Sally  Green,  "  if  she  was  like  the  rest  of  the  city  girls. 
You  see  what  they  are,  Mrs.  Johnson  ;  made  up  for  a  show, 
like  them  paper  flowers  you  talked  about." 

"  That  Sally  Green  made  ?  Very  pretty  they  be,  on  the 
mantel-tree  piece  ;  the  Elder  says  it's  going  to  be  their 
winter  garding." 

"  Yes,"  said  Carradine,  thoughtfully,  "  a  winter  garding. 
I'd  prefer  what  grows  natural  in  the  summer.  You  can 
live  on  that !  But,  I  tell  you,  a  young  woman  with  her 
ribbins  and  prinking,  what's  she  good  for  now  ?" 

"  Don't  be  hard,  sir  ;  it  ain't  long  we  keep  young,  try 
our  best.  Sally  is  a  unly  child,  and  if  she  was  an  orphan  to- 
day, she's  money  enough  to  take  care  of  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Johnson.  "  They've  brought  her  up  tender — she  ain't 
meant  to  be  a  farmer's  wife.  There's  men  in  the  world 
that  can  do  without  farming.  Good  for  Sally  Green  and 
such  as  have  edication." 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  not  half  satisfied  with  her  apology  for 
the  Elder's  daughter,  but  she  derived  a  little  satisfaction 
from  the  expression  given  to  the  distaste  hinted  for  the 
slaving  life  herself  led.  She  was  born  and  brought  up  in  a 
town,  and  to  this  day  looked  back  with  longing  regret  to  its 
dust  and  clatter,  its  novelties  and  shows.  But  these  retros- 
pections were  never  indulged  in,  except  at  a  cost.  Con- 
science stood  ready  to  reproach  her  for  all  that  was  involved 
in  this  regret  and  discontent.  Would  she,  indeed,  renounce 
Johnson,  and  little  Harry,  and  her  religion,  to  be  a  girl 
once  more  and  live  a  lady's  maid,  as  she  was  doing  when 


LOOKING    FOR    A    SUBSTITUTE.  25 

Johnson  caught  her  in  his  toils  and  carried  her  away  into 
the  lonesome  country  ?  Well,  at  least,  she  could  feel  for 
Sally  Green  ;  and,  though  it  might  be  accounted  a  sin  in  a 
professor,  could  admire  and  flatter  Sally's  flashing,  flimsy 
show  of  dress,  and  pity  her  for  the  accident  that  had  cast 
her  lot  on  a  farm,  when  she  might  have  shone  in  town. 

Mr.  Carradine  was  perhaps  musing  over  her  defence  of 
Sally — he  did  not  speak  in  some  time — when  he  did,  he 
said  : 

"  I  had  my  answer  to  those  questions  without  asking.  You 
wouldn't  be  afraid  to  trust  children  to  the  care  of  the  young 
woman,  Mrs.  Johnson  V 

"  Well,  give  us  a  bit  of  a  pictur  ;  how  you  saw  it,"  she 
said,  glad  to  have  escaped  the  argument  whicii  she  had 
invited. 

"  A  peaceable  looking  young  woman.  Smart,  and  great 
for  learning.  Brown  recommends  her.  No  gadder,  says 
he  ;  and  no  gossip  ;  but  as  firm  as  a  rock." 

"  Like  enough  to  Randy,  for  all  I  can  see." 

"  Not  a  bit,  ma'am.  Randy  isn't  firm  ;  she's  like  tow  to 
take  fire." 

"  But  you  let  her  alone,  and  she  goes  out,  of  herself.  If 
she  ever  gets  broke  in — why,  what  do  you  think  of  your 
Bill  there  1  You  wouldn't  sell  him  for  love  or  money  ;  but 
I  guess  you  had  a  time  of  it  bringing  him  round  !  You  ain't 
nearer  to  your  horse,  Mr.  Carradine,  than  the  Lord  is  to 
Randy.  It  will  take  him  to  do  it ;  but  it'll  be  done.  Firm 
as  a  rock — you  like  that  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Carradine,  "in  the  right  kind  of  woman." 

"  Oh,  dear — the  right  kind  of  a  woman  !  Is  there  such 
a  thing  as  that,  now  1" 

"  Maybe,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"  I've  tried  to  pictur  her,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  who  seem- 
ed to  be  speaking  for  all  Martindale — and,  indeed,  she  had 
in  view  the  occasions  on  which  she  must  hereafter  make  sat- 
isfaction for  the  event  of  this  drive  to  Brighton,  and  she 
must  be  able  to  say  with  a  clear  conscience  that  she  had 
stood  up  against  '  foreigners.'  "  I've  tried  to  pictur  her, 
thinking  of  what  she  could  be  like ;  but  it's  allers  a 
flying  image  I  get,  like  them  picturs  of  angels  in  the  big 
Bible.  Where  did  you  get  your  notione  ?"  She  asked  the 
serious  question  quite  playfully  ;  but  he  answered  gravely  : 

2 


26  PETER    CARRADINE. 

"  Out  of  my  conscience." 

"  Conscience  !     Out  of  your  conscience,  sir  ?" 

"  Isn't  that  what  you  steer  by  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  liko 
the  Pagans  you  hear  so  much  of  in  your  Herald  ?  Though, 
for  the  matter  of  them,  they've  got  their  own  light  to  walk 
by,  to  my  mind." 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !"  answered  Mrs.  Johnson,  somewhat  flur- 
ried, in  spite  of  the  smile  that  succeeded  this  rather  sharp 
questioning.  "  But  what  can  your  conscience  tell  you,  sir, 
about  womankind  V 

"  It  remembers  me  of  my  mother."  Here  Mr.  Carradine 
drew  the  reins,  and  Bill  went  on  with  extra  speed  for  half  a 
mile.  Then  said  the  master  : 

"  It  isn't  to  be  expected  she  will  be  our  teacher  long.  It's 
the  country  air  she  wants  for  health,  and  for  rest.  I  hope 
she  will  get  both ;  I  do  indeed.  She  don't  look  over- 
strong." 

"Sickly?" 

"  Sickly  ! — No  ;  but  not  as  strong  as  an  ox.  Not  weak 
neither.  This  is  a  pretty  country — don't  you  think  so,  Mrs. 
Johnson  ?" 

As  he  said  this,  Carradine  looked  around  him  and  took 
in  the  pure  air  and  the  bright  prospect,  as  if  with  renewed 
senses. 

They  were  just  entering  the  "black  forest,"  through 
which  the  straight  country  road  ran  on  a  level  for  three 
miles.  He  was  thinking  that,  when  they  had  passed  through 
this  shade  and  silence,  they  would  come  upon  the  fine  farm 
lands,  the  broad  prospect.  And  would  the  young  woman 
find  the  country  fair  !  How  would  these  great  meadows 
strike  upon  her  eye,  these  beautiful  broad  meadows,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  fine  forest  trees,  left  for  the  shelter  of 
cattle  by  the  thoughtful  care  that  tilled  the  lands  ?  And 
the  fields  of  clover,  and  the  windings  of  the  river,  by  whose 
side  the  road  ran  full  ten  miles  ?  What  would  she  think  of 
the  tulip  trees  ?  and  the  great  pines  ?  and  the  pine  grove  *? 
What  might  her  notion  of  a  pleasant  country  be  ?  He  was 
curious  to  know. 

And  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Johnson,  who  was  slow  to  give 
her  answer. 

"  Maybe — yes — for  farmers."  Then  she  pinned  herself 
fast  to  this  acknowledgment  by  a  text.  "  The  earth  ia  the 


LOOKING    FOR    A    SUBSTITUTE.  27 

Lord's  and  the  fulness  thereof."  But  this  kind  of  vengeance 
on  herself  did  not  change  the  fact  that  she  was  going  back 
to  duties  which  she  did  not  love,  to  a  retirement  that  had 
no  charm  for  her. 

As  he  drove  along  among  the  farm-houses  of  Martindale, 
Mr.  Carradine  was  tempted  to  stop  and  communicate  with 
his  neighbors  the  measure  of  success  he  had  met  with  in 
seeking  a  teacher  for  their  children.  But  caution  prevented 
him.  Time  enough  when  he  should  have  settled  the  busi- 
ness— under  provocation  even,  he  was  not  a  boaster. 

So  he  drove  past  the  blacksmith's  shop  and  tavern  ;  past 
Elder  Green's  ;  past  the  lane  that  ran  down  to  neighbor 
Roy's  ;  and  up  the  hill  to  the  red  farm-house  occupied  by 
his  own  tenants,  with  whom  he  lived. 

The  most  that  Carradine  could  say  was,  that  he  felt  satis- 
fied with  his  day's  work,  and  every  moment  less  disposed  to 
construe  charitably  the  act  he  had  so  speedily  avenged.  All 
was  indeed  over  with  Miranda  when  he  sat  smoking  his  pipe 
in  the  corner  of  his  piazza,  and  reflected  on  the  day's  event- 
ful passage.  In  comparison  with  Randy,  dark-haired,  ener- 
getic, swift  in  thought  and  deed  ;  handsome,  and  so  proud 
that  she  seemed  to  be  defiant  even  in  ordinary  dealings  ; 
impetuous  and  self-willed  ;  and  withal  a  chivalrous,  brave- 
hearted  girl,  both  generous  and  loving  ;  in  comparison  with 
her,  how  strangely  attractive  to  his  fancy  the  face  of  the 
young  lady  he  had  seen  at  Brighton  ! 

"  Such  flowers  don't  grow  wild,"  he  concluded  ;  "  you 
must  graft  the  tree  that  bears  such  fruit."  It  was  certain 
also  that  no  woman  had  excited  in  him  equal  curiosity.  Her 
fair  face  haunted  him.  When  he  had  spoken  to  Mrs.  John- 
son of  her  desire  for  the  country  and  for  rest,  and  she  had 
suggested  the  notion  of  sickliness  and  weakness,  he  seemed 
to  receive  a  new  idea  of  strength,  as  attractive  as  it  was  no- 
vel. The  young  woman  was  not  as  strong  as  an  ox — but — 
she  wasn't  born  to  do  the  work  of  oxen.  She  seemed  to  be 
cautious,  and  yet  ready — and  well  assured  of  her  ability  to 
perform  what  she  engaged  to  do. 

And  yet  almost  any  person  knowing  Mr.  Carradine  would 
have  pronounced  this  teacher  incapable  of  filling  the  situa- 
tion to  his  satisfaction. 

To  what  purpose — yea,  let  the  items  be  given  ;  there  she 
was,  then,  in  the  house  of  Commissioner  Brown,  or  before 


28  PETER   CARRADINE. 

tlio  eyes  of  Peter  Carradine  musing  in  his  piazza — a  stature 
slightly  above  medium — demeanor  untroubled,  aspect  cheer- 
ful— eyes  light  gray  and  far-seeing,  face  fair  and  good,  hair 
brown  and  curling — voice  clear,  distinct,  deliberate,  out- 
spoken, as  if  the  heart  had  nothing  to  conceal ;  as  if  the 
woman  had  something  to  do  for  herself  and  others,  and  was 
conscious  of  it ;  had  a  being  to  sustain,  and  knew  the  worth 
of  speech.  Yet  her  words  were  not  many. 

I  find  in  her  nothing  coarse  or  tawdry  ;  nothing  mean  or 
base,  now  that  it  seems  some  definite  report  is  to  be  given. 
She  expresses  a  thoughtful,  kindly  nature.  Her  cheerful- 
ness is  active,  does  not  betray  ignorance,  neither  senseless 
content.  She  has  had  some  sorrows  as  well  as  some  true 
joys  ;  and  her  conviction,  that  by  which  she  lives,  seems  to 
be  that  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  the  sun. 

And  Mr.  Carradine,  wise  in  cattle  breeds,  and  crops,  and 
lands,  careless  of  women,  too  hurried  for  every  thing  in  this 
world  except  business,  is  pleased  to  think  of  her.  And  he 
is  somewhat  anxious — thinking,  what  if  she  comes  up  to- 
morrow and  finds  the  country  not  agreeable,  the  school-house 
uncomfortable — nothing  to  her  notion  ? 

If  she  turns  her  back  on  Martindale — she  is  a  free  agent  ; 
no  one  can  constrain  her  to  see  what  she  may  not  be  able  to 
see  in  the  district,  (and  that  is  a  vexation,)  will  he  regret 
anything  besides  the  children's  loss,  and  the  mortification 
of  failure  ? 

He  does  not  even  ask  himself  that  question.  But  if  there 
is  anything  objectionable  in  the  school-house,  he  would  not 
oppose  improvements  she  might  recommend,  if  within  the 
bounds  of  reason. 

He  sat  there,  thinking  of  these  things,  long  after  he  had 
smoked  his  pipe  out.  At  last  a  sudden  recollection  brought 
him  to  his  feet.  He  had  forgotten  to  speak  to  Johnson 
about  Bill.  But  so  accustomed  was  he  to  carrying  out  all 
plans  and  purposes  with  prompt  despatch,  that  he  had  not 
walked  the  length  of  the  piazza  before  he  had  determined 
that  it  might  be  wise  to  defer  Bill's  shoeing  until  daylight 
This  reflection,  however,  did  not  satisfy  the  unconscious  de- 
sire that  deftly  suggested  Bill's  need  of  shoeing — and  the 
tavern  stand.  He  remembered  now  that  he  had  a  little 
business  to  transact  with  a  neighbor,  and  where  so  likely 
to  find  him  as  in  Jobson's  bar-room  ? 


LOOKING   FOR    A   SUBSTITUTE.  29 

Carradine  could  deceive  himself  as  readily  as  another 
man.  What  he  really  went  down  to  the  tavern  for  was  to 
satisfy  his  curiosity  in  regard  to  public  opinion  in  Martin- 
dale.  Very  rarely  was  he  seen  in  that  part  of  the  house 
superintended  by  Senior  Jobson.  He  never  was  invited 
to  "  take  something"  by  that  genial  proprietor,  though 
whenever  they  met  they  were  friendly  enough,  and  there 
was  probably  no  danger  that  either  would  ever  cross  the 
other's  path,  or  interfere  with  his  interests. 

Olmstead,  the  man  whom  Carradine  was  in  search  of,  sat 
in  the  tavern  porch  with  half  a  dozen  of  the  usual  hangers- 
on.  As  he  approached,  not  a  soul  of  them  could  mistake 
the  man,  his  figure,  or  his  bearing.  Senior  Jobson  said  : 

"  Lord  !  there's  the  devil  himself,  come  to  see  what  ye're 
making  this  rumpus  for  about  him.  I'll  expose  the  lot  of 
you." 

Junior  retorted,  with  a  laugh  : 

"  There's  two  can  play  at  that  game." 

"  Yes — what  started  Senior  up  so,  I  wonder  ;  haranguing 
us  by  the  hour.  I  say  it's  Randy  !"  exclaimed  Olmstead,  a 
burly,  happy  fellow,  who  came  down  for  his  newspaper  two 
hours  ago,  and  forgot  his  errand  the  moment  he  arrived  in 
sight  of  the  Spread  Eagle. 

"  Randy  be  sunk !''  muttered  the  bachelor — but  he  walked 
off  to  the  other  end  of  the  porch,  and  by  the  time  he  could 
pace  back  again,  Mr.  Carradine  had  come  nearer,  and  called 
out  : 

"  Is  Joshua  Olmstead  anywhere  about  ?" 

"  Here  !"  returned  Olmstead.     "  What's  i'  the   wind1?" 

"  You're  the  man  I  wanted,"  said  Carradine,  and  he  as- 
cended the  steps  and  took  the  seat  by  his  neighbor,  which 
Junior  had  vacated  but  now.  Their  conference  was  brief — 
then  Senior,  who  had  observed  them  from  a  distance,  said, 
approaching  : 

"  What's  the  row  up  t'  school-house,  captain  ?  You  scat- 
tered  the  young  ones  like  leaves  blowing  about  afore  the 
wind." 

"  What's  the  report  ?"  asked  Carradine,  not  disappointed 
to  hear  the  interrogation. 

"  Randy's  quit,  and  a  new  teacher  coming.     So  ?" 

"  If  one  can  be  got.     Yes  ;  Miranda  Roy  has  left." 


30  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"  Randy's  a  smart  girl,"  said  Junior  Jobson  ;  but  it  was 
a  remarkably  small  voice  of  vindication. 

"  The  devil's  in  her,  though,"  answered  his  brother,  the 
innkeeper.  Beyond  hearing,  there  was  interrogation  in  this 
assured  assertion. 

"  Oh,  ay — she's  well  enough.  Miranda's  a  good  girl  in 
her  place — but  that  isn't  in  th'  school-house.  And  so,  there 
are  others  in  want  of  a  good  place,  I  expect.  We'll  not 
have  to  go  begging,"  said  Carradine,  with  magnanimity. 

"  But  she — ha  !  ha  ! — Rand's  a  tiger  if  you  get  her  roused 
up,  captain.  Tooth  and  nail !  I'd  as  lief  have  a  wild-cat  af- 
ter me." 

"  I  wouldn't  then.  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about,  Olmstead." 

"  Don't  1  ?  Well,  I'd  like  to  keep  a  school  once,  any 
way,  with  her  for  a  beginner.  I'd  take  the  mischief  out  of 
her,  or  die  a  trying  !" 

"  Leave  her  alone  ;  leave  her  alone,"  -  said  Carradine, 
pleasantly. 

"  Tisn't  all  of  us  that's  fit  for  every  kind  of  business 
that's  going.  Put  that  girl  in  her  right  place:,  and  she'd  till 
it  full.  I  believe  in  Randy  Roy  ;  but  I  don't  blame  you, 
neither,  Mr.  Carradine."  It  was  Junior  who  said  this. 

"  Who  does  ?"  exclaimed  the  brother,  as  if  the  very  no- 
tion were  preposterous. 

"  You  think  it's  the  thing,  then,  all  of  you — a  new  teach- 
er ?"  asked  Mr.  Carradine,  not  a  little  pleased  at  this  report 
of  the  general  opinion. 

"  I  don't  know  what  a  man  could  a  done  different.  If  a 
woman  takes  to  'busing  the  children,  time  the  men  took  'em 
up,"  said  Olmstead  ;  he  was  a  husband  and  a  father  ;  his 
house  was  full  of  little  ones — he  spoke  feelingly. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Junior,  endorsing  the  proposition 
without  clearly  seeing  its  bearings,  for  he  regarded  himself 
at  the  present  time  as  Miranda's  defender.  "  Yes,  yes  ; 
that's  so,  neighbors." 

"  I'm  glad  to  have  your  opinion,  friends.  I  knew  I  was 
in  the  rights  of  it ;  but  a  man  likes  to  have  his  friends  see 
what  he  sees  ;  and  that's  rare — it's  rare  !  Olmstead,  you'll 
recollect,  will  you  ?  Nine  o'clock,  sure.  Good  night,  all 
round." 

80  Mr.  Carradine  departed  ;   but  he  had  taken  scarcely 


LOOKING   FOR   A   SUBSTITUTE.  31 

a  dozen  steps  beyond  the  road,  when  Senior  Jobson  started 
after  him.  It  seemed  to  be  a  sudden  movement  on  his  part, 
but  it  followed  after  the  coolest  deliberation. 

"  I  say,  captain,"  he  called  out,  and  those  whom  he  had 
left  behind  him  heard  as  distinctly  as  Carradine,  and  every 
strained  ear  listened  for  what  should  follow,  but  the  two 
men  moved  on  beyond  hearing  before  they  spoke  again. 
This  was  the  conversation  that  then  passed  between  them  : 

"  Captain,  I've  been  thinking  more  about  that  farm  land, 
I  want  it  this  spring  ;  I  want  it  the  worst  way." 

"  What  farm  land  ?  You  don't  mean  Roy's  farm,  Job- 
son  ?" 

"  Why  don't  I  ?  It  belongs  to  me  of  right — never 
ought  to  have  been  sold  ;  cut  up  the  best  strip  ever  was 
for  barley — and  that's  the  kind  o'  grain  that  pays  me 
best." 

"  No  doubt.  But  I  told  you,  Jobson,  I'd  no  sooner  give 
that  mortgage  into  another  man's  hands  than  I  would  sell 
my  eyes.  It's  what  I  said  to  Roy  when  he  got  into  that 
cramped  corner  of  his — you  know  how  he  got  there — helping 
his  brother  Edward.  No,  no  ;  can't  be  done,  Jobson  ;  can't 
be  done  !" 

Whenever  Mr.  Carradine  spoke  in  this  tone,  it  was  well 
understood  that  further  discussion  of  a  subject  with  him 
would  not  only  prove  vain,  but  also  vexatious.  Jobson, 
knowing  that  he  should  gain  nothing  by  any  kind  of  argu- 
ment, ended  the  conference  by  saying  : 

"  If  ever  you  change  yer  mind,  then,  you  won't  be  favor- 
ing another  man  afore  me  ?" 

"  No,  no  ;  you  shall  have  as  good  a  chance  as  another 
when  that  time  comes.  Be  sure  of  that,  Jobson." 

"  That's  all.     Good  night,  then." 

"  Good  night  to  you,"  said  Carradine,  and  the  two  went 
their  separate  ways — Carradine  indulging  himself  in  this 
outbreak  when  he  found  himself  alone  : 

"Beast,  talking  of  barley  !  He  wants  the  mortgage  so  he 
can  choke  the  .old  man  and  badger  Miranda.  He'll  wait 
awhile  then." 

"  Come,  boys,  let's  drink  to  the  new  school-ma'am,"  said 
Senior  Jobson,  as  he  returned  to  the  tavern. 

So  the  party  went  into  the  bar-room  and  drank  to  the 
health  of  Mercy  Fuller  ! 


32  PETER   CARRADINE. 

Privately,  Junior's  wife  joined  in  the  drinking,  and  went 
to  bed.  Overburdened  with  children,  work  and  care,  this 
was  her  rest  and  recreation.  She  had  overheard  Senior's 
invitation,  and  the  merest  suggestion  of  that  "  invisible  spir- 
it" he  had  invoked  in  behalf  of  the  coming  teacher,  was 
enough. 


THE    ADVENT.    WITH    RESULTS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   ADVENT,   WITH   RESULTS. 

MB.  COMMISSONEB.  BROWN  came  up  to  Martindale  next 
day,  with  his  daughter  and  Miss  Fuller,  and  the  party  visit- 
ed, together,  the  little  red  school-house  under  the  hill,  at 
whose  door  Mr.  Carradine  stood  waiting. 

It  needed  but  a  glance  to  assure  him  that  he  might  throw 
aside  his  fears,  such  a  look  of  pleasure  was  on  the  face 
whose  satisfaction  he  had  most  desired  to  witness,  that  he,  a 
man  never  disposed  to  burden  himself  with  any  unnecessary 
care,  quickly  assured  himself  with  an  inaudible  "  all  right!" 
and  led  the  inspectors  into  the  school-house,  which  he  had 
taken  the  pains  to  bring  into  order  while  he  waited  their 
arrival. 

The  place  seemed  to  answer  Miss  Fuller's  wish.  She  had 
anticipated  nothing  so  comfortable ;  she  found  nothing  to 
disapprove,  but  much  to  be  glad  of.  And  Mr.  Carradine 
showed  the  party  with  pride,  encouraged  by  her  praise,  into 
the  wood-shed,  and  to  the  spring  in  the  grove,  back  of  the 
house,  but  without  a  suspicion  that  Mr.  Brown  would  add  : 

"  Carradine,  you  did  as  good  a  public  work  as  ever  was 
done  for  Martindale  when  you  gave  the  land  and  built  the 
school-house." 

Yet  he  felt  a  little  honest  pleasure  in  that  kind  of  en- 
dorsement, though  he  answered  modestly  : 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ?  Nobody  else  would  undertake  the 
job.  I  should  think  we  had  half  a  dozen  meetings  before  a 
man  of  them  would  say  what  he  was  willing  to  give  towards 
it.  Finally,  I  told  them  they  might  as  well  save  their  time 
and  breath,  as  well  as  their  good-for-nothing  money,  and  stop 
talking.  They  consented,  all  round." 

"  Then  you  have  a  right  to  find  your  own  teachers,   cer- 


34  PETER    CARRADINE. 

tain.     I  wonder  they  don't  object  to  that,  though,"  said  Mr. 
Brown. 

Carradine  appeared  more  anxious  to  learn  what  Miss  Fuller 
thought  of  the  country,  than  even  to  establish  his  right  to 
supply  the  school  with  teachers ;  for  he  said  nothing  in  par- 
ticular about  the  present  vacancy,  or  the  sudden  transfer 
he  was  making  of  the  pupils  from  one  instructor  to  another. 
He  seemed  delighted  to  hear  Mercy  praise  the  drive  from 
Brighton.  Nothing  apparently  had  escaped  her  notice  ; 
woods  and  fields,  those  fertile  fields  where  cattle  grazed,  the 
tulip  trees,  the  pine  trees,  the  river,  the  hills,  and  the  broad 
meadows,  she  had  observed,  and  she  admired  all.  He  was 
quite  satisfied.  And  if  he  had  now  thought  of  Miranda,  it 
would  have  been  as  we  are  too  apt  to  think  of  the  victims  of 
other  modes  of  progress  in  the  world.  Every  blessed  sew- 
ing machine  !  must  we  darken  and  lessen  benefit  with  think- 
ing of  the  inefficient  and  the  incompetent  who  will  perish 
under  the  wheel  of  that  domestic  Juggernaut  ? 

During  the  hour  of  their  visit  it  was  arranged  that  Miss 
Fuller  should  come  up  next  day  to  Martindale,  and  that  her 
summer  career  of  "  boarding  round"  should  begin  with  Mrs. 
Johnson. 

In  the  course  of  that  same  hour  Mr.  Brown  and  Mr.  Car- 
radine drove  about  among  the  farmers,  notifying  the  various 
families  that  the  school  would  begin  next  day,  and  that  un- 
der most  favorable  circumstances.  The  children  were  ex- 
pected to  muster  in  full  force,  and  promptly,  for  it  was  not 
likely  that  Martindale  would  ever  again  have  such  a  teacher  as 
the  lady  who  had  engaged  to  serve  them  for  the  summer. 

This  business  now  accomplished,  Mr.  Carradine  might  rest 
— if  he  could. 

He  went  into  his  room  on  the  north  side  of  the  house, 
dressed  himself  in  his  working-clothes,  and  walked  down  to 
the  field  where  Johnson  was  plowing,  and  stayed  there  until 
dark.  He  was,  therefore,  probably  at  work.  Why  not ! 
There  was  not  in  the  town  so  diligent  a  man  as  he,  nor  a 
man  -who  had  so  signally  prospered  by  industry.  Work  was 
his  chief  business  in  life,  apparently  ;  and  this  little  episode 
recorded  above  must  have  sent  him  back  to  his  toil  with  an 
increased  zest.  He  had  a  hundred  things  to  think  of.  Why 
did  he  think  of  but  one  ? 


THE    ADVENT,    WITH    RESULTS.  35 

Mercy  Fuller  returned  to  Brighton  smiling  and  satisfied, 
packed  her  trunk  and  sent  her  answer  to  the  Principal. 

Brown  said  to  his  daughter,  "  Carradine  is  an  odd  stick, 
but  a  bachelor,  and  rich."  To  which  the  daughter  answer- 
ed, "  Father,  how  absurd." 

Sally  Green  walked  down  the  lane  that  led  to  Samuel 
Roy's  house.  She  had  not  seen  Miranda  since  yesterday's 
disturbance,  and  she  had  heard,  meantime,  many  versions  of 
the  story  besides  that  delivered  last  night  by  young  Savage. 
Public  opinion  justified  neither  of  the  parties  concerned  in 
the  quarrel,  but  all  the  sympathy  Sally  had  to  give  was  giv- 
en to  Miranda  ;  and  when  she  came  fairly  to  discover,  and 
speak  her  mind,  Peter  Carradine  would  not  be  spared. 

A1J  day  Miranda  had  been  expecting  this  arrival ;  and  if 
Sally  had  only  to  run  up  in  the  morning  with  a  single  word 
of  trust  and  love,  beyond  all  things  her  friend  would  have 
valued  such  a  testimony — one  expression,  impulsive,  ardent, 
believing,  would  have  outweighed  scores  of  more  deliberate 
utterances.  But  up  came  Sally,  late  in  the  afternoon  ;  a 
smooth-faced,  pretty  girl,  who  wore  her  black  hair  combed 
straight  back  from  her  forehead,  with  a  curl  plastered 
against  either  temple — and  her  eyes,  large,  bright  and  black, 
wide  opened  to  the  world  ;  her  complexion  clear  and  dark, 
was  without  a  blemish.  There  was  not  an  evidence  in  that 
showy  beauty  of  either  strength  or  wisdom,  but  those  who 
loved  the  girl  made  no  requirement  of  wisdom  or  of  strength. 
Wilful,  and  selfish,  and  vain,  she  had  made  her  way  thus  far 
in  life,  so  pleasant  and  so  charming,  it  was  a  rare  thing  for 
any  one  to  oppose  her.  Such  as  attempted  opposition  did  it 
to  their  cost,  and  never  to  her  benefit. 

She  had  on  her  a  flat  straw  hat,  trimmed  with  pink  rib- 
bons, and  a  pink  dress  made  for  her  while  she  was  at  the 
boarding  school,  whose  deep  folds  were  well  trimmed  with 
fringe.  She  wore,  likewise,  ornaments  on  her  hands,  and 
wrists,  and  bosom  ;  and  the  chain  round  her  neck  secured  a 
gold  pencil,  with  a  number  of  pretty  and  curious  charms, 
tokens  of  the  undying  affection  of  schoolmates,  with  whom 
she  was  just  now  in  the  close  communion  of  a  constant  cor- 
respondence. 

Curious  though  she  felt  in  regard  to  Randy's  state,  Sally 
was  mainly  urged  to  this  present  visit  by  her  grandmother's 
anxiety — and  when  they  had  watched  the  Commissioner's 


36  PETER    CARRADIXK. 

democrat  till  it  wheeled  out  of  sight,  returning  to  Brighton, 
she  put  on  her  hat,  and  started  for  Samuel  Roy's. 

Randy  was  busy  sorting  the  garden  seeds,  which  must  be 
planted  to-morrow.  She  had  arranged  the  papers  of  flower- 
seeds,  and  was  deep  among  the  shadows  of  future  garden 
treasures,  when  she  looked  up  and  saw  Sally  Green. 

"  Don't  get  up,"  said  Sally,  as  she  stepped  across  the 
parcels  ranged  round  the  door-sill,  on  which  Miranda  sat. 

"  I  can't,"  said  Randy,  looking  a  little  disturbed,  but 
speaking  out  strongly,  fluently — "  take  a  seat.  I'm  getting 
ready  for  gardening.  It's  late  for  planting,  I  think,  but  I 
couldn't  get  a  minute  of  time  before.  I  won't  have  that  to 
complain  of  any  longer.  You've  heard  it  all,  of  course  ?" 

"  You  ain't  killed  any  way,"  said  Sally.  "  I  expected  to 
find  you  in  bed  sick — not  able  to  see  out  of  your  eyes  for 
crying.  That's  the  reason  I  didn't  come  up  this  morning." 

"  Thank  you,  kindly,"  answered  Randy  ;  but  she  looked 
indignant.  Sally's  fine  dress,  or  the  perfume  she  carried, 
so  dainty  and  rich,  had  an  indisputable  effect  in  controlling 
the  speech  of  an  angry  woman  at  this  present  moment. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  the  business  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  think  it  might  have  been  expected.  Cruel  and  mean 
— I  never  changed  my  mind  yet  about  him.  I  wouldn't  like 
to  have  to  thank  him  for  a  favor." 

Randy  winced  at  that.  If  her  face  lightened  during  the 
first  part  of  Sally's  remark,  it  darkened  at  the  last  words. 

"  It's  desperate  !"  said  she.  "  I'm  done  with  him, 
though  ;  and  I'm  glad  of  it." 

"  Never  mind.  So'm  I.  But  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
him  flourishing  about,  you  know,  with  the  folks  from  Brigh- 
ton city,  this  afternoon." 

"What  folks?" 

"  Why,  the  new  teacher.  Haven't  you  heard  ?  Yes,  he's 
got  a  new  teacher — went  over  yesterday  afternoon  to  see 
about  it,  and  to-day  they  came  to  look  !  There  was  Mr. 
Brown  and  his  daughter,  and  this  young  lady.  A  dreadful 
common  looking  affair,  too ;  milk  and  water.  We've  got  to  have 
her  boarding  round  next.  She's  going  to  Johnson's  the  first 
week.  And  we  shall  have  to  take  her  in  our  turn,  I  expect. 
But  it  will  be  as  cool  a  week  as  ever  she  spent,  I  promise 
you.  Of  course  she'll  be  treated  well,  but  she  might  better 
be  cast  off  on  Robinson  Crusoe's  Island.  I've  seen  city 


THE     ADVENT,     WITH     RESULTS.  37 

folks  before  !  And  Mr.  Carradine  needn't  think  he  can 
come  any  of  his  games  in  this  district.  You  know  grandma 
don't  helieve  in  him.  Neither  do  I.  So  you've  two  on 
your  side,  Handy,  if  you  hadn't  the  whole  town,  as  you  have, 
you  know." 

Sally  had  fairly  talked  herself  round  into  full  helief  in 
sentiments  which  by  no  means  actuated  her  when  she  left 
her  father's  house.  Indeed,  at  home,  where  Mr.  Carradine 
met  with  no  manner  of  favor,  she  had  seemed  to  be  disposed 
to  regard  Randy's  temper  in  the  fullest  and  worst  light. — 
What  she  had  said  of  the  arrival  in  Martindale  that  day.  and 
the  departure  therefrom,  had  greatly  excited  Miranda,  but 
she  took  the  tidings  with  apparent  composure. 

"  When  does  the  school  begin  ?"  she  asked. 

"To-morrow." 

"  That's  sudden — his  way  !" 

"  And  that's  all  you  care  !  You're  as  queer  as  he  is.  I 
would  have  liked  to  see  you  two.  I  don't  believe  he  had 
the  best  of  it." 

"  Nor  I." 

"  So  he  was  just  mean  enough  to  start  off  on  the  other 
track  and  get  another  teacher.  I  didn't  think  he'd  do  it — 
though  he  said  he  would." 

"  But  it  was  dreadful  to  get  roused  so.  I  think  T  would 
rather  die,  Sally,  than  go  through  with  anything  like  that 
again.  Besides,  father  is  so  troubled,  though  he  don't  say 
much.  He's  in  debt  to  Mr.  Carradine.  If  it  wasn't  for 
that  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  To  have  business  with  a  man 
that's  served  you  so^-right  or  wrong — it  wouldn't  be  agree- 
able to  a  saint,  and  it  isn't  to  him.  When  uncle  Edward 
got  into  his  difficulties,  father  borry'd  money  of  Mr.  Carra- 
dine, and  he  never's  seen  the  time  when  he  could  catch  up 
with  himself  since.  That's  the  only  thing.  If  I  have  done 
wrong,  how  '11  I  forgive  myself  for  bringing  a  new  trouble 
on  the  poor  old  man1?" 

For  the  first  time  that  day  Miranda  burst  into  tears — but 
the  storm  was  brief  as  sudden.  She  would  not  allow  her- 
self to  lament  what  had  happened  in  any  useless  way 
What  could  she  do  1 

Sally  consoled  her,  after  her  fashion,  innocent  of  a  sug- 
gestion. 

"  Oh,    dear — can't   it   be    done,     somehow  ?     Can't   the 


38  PETER    CARKADINE. 

money  be  raised  7  I  don't  wonder  you  feel  so.  If  it  wasn't 
for  that  debt !" 

"  Maybe  it  might  be  raised  ;  it  might — yes  ;  easy  enough. 
I'm  all  that  stands  in  the  way  to  that,  too  !  You  don't  see 
how  I  can  be  such  a  stumbling-block  to  myself  as  I  am  ! 
Oh  !  Sally,  I  suppose  I  am  a  dreadful  wicked  woman.  And 
I  know  I'm  a  terrible  fool.  Always  gettipg  into  trouble. 
When  I  see  how  quiet  father  goes  along,  I  wish  I  was  a 
Christian,  if  for  nothing  else.  I  expect  it's  a  spirit  they 
get,  that  makes  it  easy  to  live  ;  and  it's  always  been  hard, 
up-hill  work  to  me." 

"  Don't  talk  that  way  ;  you'll  come  out  of  it  somehow, 
Randy,  and  light  on  your  feet,  like  the  cat  thrown  out  of  a 
window  ;  I  can  see  that."  Sally  laughed,  as  she  rose  from 
her  seat.  Her  business  here  as  a  consoler  was  now  done, 
and  somehow,  Randy's  company  was  less  agreeable  "than 
usual. 

"  What  is  the  young  lady's  name  that's  coming  up  from 
Brighton  ?"  asked  Randy,  rising  also.  She  would  not  invite 
Sally  to  remain  longer  ;  it  was  a  presence  that  only  seemed 
to  aggravate  her  present  depression. 

"Fuller.  She's  nothing.  You  needn't  bother  about 
her.  I'm  going.  I  shall  tell  grandma  that  Randy's  Randy 
yet.  Come  home  to  tea  with  me  !"  This  sudden  invitation 
seemed  to  be  an  unlooked-for  escape  of  sympathy.  It 
claimed  Sally's  subsequent  admiration. 

"  And  leave  father  ?"  said  Randy — she  appeared  to  hesi- 
tate. 

"  No— I  suppose  not,  as  long  as  he  lives !  Come  and 
walk  a  little  way,  then." 

So  Randy  got  her  green  checked  sun-bonnet  and  walked 
with  her  friend  along  the  road  toward  Elder  Green's. 

On  her  return,  Miranda  met  Senior  Jobson,  who  came 
out  of  his  barley  field,  which  adjoined  her  father's  farm. 
He  said  : 

"  Miss  Randy,  will  you  tell  your  father  if  he  wants  my 
span  to-morrow,  for  breaking  up,  I  won't  be  using  of  cm  ? 
It's  going  to  be  a  good  season,  and  I  want  the  old  man  to 
have  a  fine  summer  harvest." 

She  thanked  him,  and  thought  her  father  would  be  glad 
of  the  horses,  if  Mr.  Jobson  was  sure  he  had  no  use  for 
them. 


THE     ADVENT,     WITH     RESULTS.  39 

As  to  that,  he  answered,  walking  along  beside  her,  en- 
couraged to  do  so  by  her  civil  speech,  he  should  not  mind 
being  put  out  in  order  that  he  might  serve  Neighbor  Roy 
before  he  served  himself.  The  .  old  man  was  not  as  strong 
and  able  to  work  as  he  was  once.  It  would  be  strange  if 
neighbors  who  had  always  known  him,  couldn't  sacrifice  a 
point  or  two  on  account  of  so  good  and  peaceable  a  man  ! — 
He  expected  some  new  farming  machinery  this  summer,  and 
he  believed  it  would  save  her  father  the  expense  of  em- 
ploying harvesters  and  threshers,  in  the  way  he  had  always 
been  obliged  to  do.  He  thought  he  could  just  mention  it  to 
her,  and  she  could  speak  of  it  to  her  father  and  it  might  en- 
courage him,  for  he  thought  that  Samuel  looked  more  infirm 
than  usual  this  spring.  And  he  knew  that  he  was  no  great 
favorite  ;  so,  if  he  would  manage  it  for  him,  he  would  thank 
her  kindly ;  or,  if  she  would  call  on  him  any  time,  for  he 
supposed  that  she  would  be  a  farmer  like  the  rest  of  them, 
and  beat  'ein  all,  maybe — he  shouldn't  wonder. 

She  thanked  him — she  more  than  thanked  him.  What  he 
had  said  about  her  father's  failing  health,  this  friendly  and 
kindly  observation  of  what  she  had  hardly  dared  acknowl- 
edge to  herself,  the  offers  of  assistance  in  the  farm  work, 
coming  in  such  a  shape,  above  all  at  such  a  time,  softened 
the  heart  of  Randy,  caused  her  to  judge  kindly  of  Senior 
Jobson,  and  she  spoke  out  the  impulse  she  felt. 

"  I  wish  you  had  the  mortgage  in  your  hands,  Mr.  Job- 
son  !  I'd  sooner  be  thinking  that  the  debt  was  owed  to  you 
than  to  Mr.  Carradine." 

"  Carradine  don't  trouble  you  about  it,  does  he,  Randy." 

"  No,  but  it's  the  owing  of  it  to  him  that  I  hate  and  de- 
spair of." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  he,  thoughtfully,  and  none  of  the  bar- 
room swagger  was  perceptible  now  ;  very  quietly  he  was 
walking  by  Miranda's  side,  a  much-abused  man  she  took  it 
into  her  head  at  this  moment  to  think.  The  old  process  was 
going  on  again.  She,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  was  see- 
ing in  him  what  she  desired  to  see.  "  Yes,  yes  ;  there's 
none  of  us  lives  quite  free  of  others.  If  it  isn't  one  kind  of  j 
debt  it's  another.  Money  or  affection  !  If  I  had  that  mort- 
gage— I  wish  I  had  !  that  should  be  the  last  of  it.  All  the 
interest  I'd  ask  for  it  wouldn't  trouble  you  to  give.  You 
understand  me,  don't  you  ?" 


40  PETER    CAKRADINE. 

"  Well — but — Senior,  don't  talk  that  way,  if  you  please." 

"  I  know,"  said  he,  "  you  are  a  deal  too  good  for  me.  I 
wasn't  thinking  iny  taking  of  that  debt  would  be  as  if  you 
was  obligated  to  seal  the  bargain.  I  know  you're  too  good 
for  me." 

"  Too  good  !" — She  looked  at  him,  and  seeing  that  he  was 
in  earnest,  that  he  really  meant  what  he  had  said,  shook  her 
head.  "  Don't  say  that  again  ;  I  don't  know  what  the  mean- 
ing of  good  is,  but  I'm  certain  it  isn't  me." 

No  man  would  have  credited  that  Senior  Jobson  ap- 
proached Miranda  Hoy  with  a  confession  of  this  nature. 
But  he  probably  believed,  for  the  moment,  that  what  he 
said  was  true,  though  the  belief  may  have  sprung  from  the 
knowledge  of  the  girl's  pride  and  spirit,  and  of  her  present 
humiliation. 

Her  exclamation,  which  expressed  a  rare,  self-depreciat- 
ing mood,  encouraged  him  now  to  urge  his  suit  on  other 
grounds  besides  those  of  expediency. 

It  could  not  surprise  her,  for  in  divers  ways  before  now 
he  had  presented  the  cause  to  her  mind.  Never  in  so  many 
words — never  openly,  as  now.  And  never  until  now  could 
he  have  trusted  his  cause  to  her  with-  confidence,  for  be- 
neath the  seeming  doubts  with  which  he  pleaded  for  him- 
self, was  a  strange  assurance  of  a  verdict  that  would  leave 
him  no  longer  a  prisoner  of  hope.  While  he-  spoke  on,  dis- 
tinctly up  rose  before  him  the  Spread  Eagle  lifted  into  a 
second  story,  newly  winged  and  enlarged — a  thriving  tav- 
ern, with  a  landlady  who  should  do  the  honors  of  the  house 
to  the  admiration  of  all  travelers.  There  too,  he  seemed  to 
see — oh,  triumph  of  common  sense  ! — the  form  of  Samuel 
Roy  reposing  on  the  shady  side  of  the  new  piazza,  with  a 
handkerchief  over  his  head,  and  his  pipe  in  the  hands  of  a 
mischievous  urchin,  whose  name  was  not  Ethan  Allen.  It 
was  a  flight  of  imagination  by  no  means  uncommon  to  the 
mind  of  Senior  Jobson,  and  it  did  not  embarrass  him  when 
he  spoke,  nor  when  he  waited  for  Miranda's  answer. 

By  a  rapid  mental  process,  she  had  surveyed  this  business 
from  beginning  to  end.  Her  pride  and  her  filial  love  de- 
cided it.  She  looked  at  Senior  Jobson  ;  he  was  not  offensive 
to  her.  His  person  was  not  contemptible,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, he  was  built  in  quite  a  noble  style  of  manhood,  and 
she  had  never  seen  him  except  in  his  better  moods.  It  was 


THE    ADVENT,     WITH    RESULTS.  41 

said  that  he  could  storm,  and  exact,  and  tyrannize,  and  that 
he  was  cruel ;  but  to  her  he  seemed  a  good-tempered,  amia- 
ble man,  and  the  contrast  of  his  disposition  to  frolic,  with 
the  grave  and  quiet  life  to  which  she,  a  girl  so  spirited,  was 
born  and  bred,  was  not  entirely  distasteful. 

He  was  not  the  man  she  would  have  chosen,  maybe,  had 
all  things  gone  well ;  but  now,  without  misgiving,  she  said  : 

"  You  have  a  mind  to  give  up  the  tavern,  then  ?  " 

"  No  I  haven't.  I've  a  mind  to  build  a  big,  fine  mansion 
on  the  corner  opposite  the  Elder's,  and  take  a  mate  that  the 
Spread  Eagle  may  be  proud  of." 

If  he  had  spoken  out  his  purpose  with  less  precision,  it 
would  have  pleased  her  less,  this  was  not  an  hour  when  she 
wished  to  rule.  The  deliverance  she  longed  for  left  her  in- 
capable of  a  wish  to  direct  or  dominate.  The  strong  man's 
strong  speech,  that  left  no  room  for  a  compromise,  seemed  to 
be  just  what  she  needed  to  hear. 

"  It  isn't  a  dove,  then,  you  liken  me  to,"  said  she,  "  If  it 
had  been  a  ground-sparrow,  I  wouldn't  have  wondered." 

"  None  o'  them  for  me  !"  he  answered.  "  Randy,  have  you 
given  me  your  consent  ?"  He  looked  at  her  with  admiration 
— he  spoke  with  tenderness. 

"  Yes."  Her  lips  closed  firmly  on  the  contract.  She 
knew  its  nature  ;  she  would  keep  her  word. 

"  Then  I'll  go  in  with  you,  and  talk  it  over  with  your  fath- 
er. If  Randy's  willing  he'll  be,"  was  Senior's  prompt 
decision 

"  I  don't  know."  She  hesitated,  then  her  part  became 
clearer — she  said  plainly,  "  You  must  let  me  manage  that ! 
He's  old  and  feeble,  and  crotchety,  you  know.  No — let  me 
talk  round  him  and  clear  the  road  for  you,  Senior.  He's 
fond  of  me — I  wouldn't  ask  him,  anyway,  to  give  me  up  just 
now." 

"  "Well — so,"  consented  Senior  ;  "  I  can  trust  Randy  out 
of  sight." 

They  separated,  a  courageous  pair,  without  the  least  mis- 
giving. Senior  was  well  aware  that  a  tolerably  desperate 
cause  might  be  trusted  with  Miranda  for  management,  if  a 
resolute  will  could  determine  the  winning. 


42  PETER   CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MORNING     GLORY. 

MIGHTILY  excited  were  the  young  people  as  the  hour  ap- 
proached for  the  opening  of  school.  Not  one  little  white 
head  and  red  face  was  missing.  Curiosity  and  self-interest 
•were  alike  urgent  in  deciding  the  parents  of  the  neighbor- 
hood as  to  the  course  they  must  take.  They  could  express 
their  sympathy  for  Miranda  when  the  time  came  for  that,  in 
another  way  than  by  keeping  scholars  from  the  school. 
When  the  children  came  into  the  school-room  at  the  sound 
of  the  bell  that  called  them  from  the  grove  and  the  wood 
shed,  where  they  had  congregated,  not  for  sport,  but  for  mu- 
tual encouragement,  curiosity  struggling  with  timidity,  a 
glance  at  the  desk,  where  the  lady  stood  with  Mr.  Brown 
and  Mr.  Carradine,  seemed  to  reassure  them. 

Certainly  there  was  nothing  to  fear  in  the  mild  eyes  turn- 
ed toward  the  door,  quietly  observing  all  who  entered  ;  and 
as  the  confidence  that  belongs  to  numbers  increased  every 
moment  with  the  entrance  of  one  and  another  scholar,  till 
the  benches  were  nearly  filled,  the  children's  eyes  became 
fixed  on  the  teacher's  stand,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives,  they  saw,  by  deliberate  and  permitted  observation,  a 
well  dressed  lady. 

Do  I  mean  a  fashionable  woman  ?  Have  I  even  on  my 
hands  here  a  girl  who  has  spent  her  time,  and  thought,  ami 
money,  on  a  toilet  that  shall  somehow  enchant  the  beholder  ? 
Not  exactly.  Far  costlier  dresses  have  been  worn,  and  ren- 
dered less  imposing,  by  a  less  serene  grace.  All  ladies  ,in 
blue  muslin,  and  lace  and  ribbon  decorations,  do  not  look  as 
well  as  Mercy  thus  attired.  Costlier  head-gear  has  been 


MORNING    GLORY.  43 

less  becoming  than  the  curls  Mercy  wears.  She  is  not  neg- 
ligent of  her  dress,  but  gracefully  heedful.  The  first  glance 
does  not  repel  you,  but  attracts,  which  surely  is  well. 

And  this  is  what  the  children  see,  and  note  with  more  or 
less  keen  observation. 

When  the  roll  whas  called,  every  name  was  answered  by 
a  "  Here."  Then  Mr.  Carradine  announced  to  the  scholars 
that  Mr.  Brown  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  procure  Miss 
Fuller's  services,  and  with  that  announcement  his  speech 
ended. 

Mr.  Brown  then  addressed  the  children,  and  the  gentle- 
men withdrew,  leaving  Miss  Fuller  to  her  fate. 

With  satisfaction,  tempered  by  reluctance,  Mr.  Carradine 
retired,  leaving  her  mistress  of  the  ground.  He  felt  so  cu- 
rious to  know  how  the  teacher  would  proceed,  and  what  the 
result  of  the  afternoon's  experiment  would  be. 

He  must  content  himself  with  his  imagining  till  he  should 
hear  Harry's  report.  And  the  flight  of  fancy  was  both  easy 
and  agreeable  ;  though  it  was  so  novel  an  occupation  for 
him  to  speculate  in  matters  so  uncertain  as  a  woman's  ways 
and  looks  in  managing  a  common  school.  He  could  guess 
exactly  Miranda's  procedures,  but  the  probabilities  in 
regard  to  Miss  Fuller  were  really  beyond  Mr.  Carradine. 

He  had  some  notions  of  his  own  as  to  how  the  school 
should  be  conducted.  And  it  spoke  well  for  him  that  he 
was  so  much  interested  in  the  children.  But  he  would  be 
misunderstood — he  expected  that ;  that  was  the  difficulty 
und'er  which  he  said  (to  himself)  he  labored  always.  Indeed 
how  such  a  man  could  have  expected  a  reputation  for  gen- 
tleness and  courtesy,  was  a  mystery.  That  he  should  have 
desired  the  confidence  that  is  accorded  to  the  gentle  and  the 
courteous  seemed  incredible.  People  said  that  he  rode 
rough-shod  over  the  neighborhood  ;  cared  nothing  for  the 
wishes  of  others  ;  was  scornful  of  their  opinions.  That  to 
crush  and  to  discourage  others  was  the  principal  effect  of 
his  "  honest,"  "  plain"  speaking.  The  timid  liked  not  to 
encounter  Mr.  Carradine.  Some,  every  way  his  equal,  ha- 
ted him.  Persons  of  cooler  temperament  and  superior  for- 
tunes appreciated  him  for  what  he  was,  and  smiled  at  his 
infirmities.  To  my  mind,  his  great  lack  in  those  days  was 
a  lack  of  sympathy,  and  for  that  lack  the  neighborhood  may 
not  only  blame  him ;  but  it  also  shall  be  summoned  to  the 


44  PETER   CARRADINE. 

bar,  and  tried  on  the  charge  of  guilt  in  helping  to  aggravate 
this  sin  of  omission  in  a  strong  and  not  unjust  character. 

Peter  Carradine  was  by  no  means  a  person  whom  ordina- 
ry contact  would  discover  to  be  agreeable,  or  generous,  or 
tender-hearted.  He  had  not  the  voice,  nor  the  eye,  nor  the 
mien,  nor  the  purpose  of  the  charmer.  He  spoke  bluntly, 
sometimes  coarsely,  sometimes  rudely  ;  he  dashed  right  or 
left,  according  to  the  course  on  which  he  had  determined, 
and  in  his  desire  or  endeavor  to  obtain  an  end,  it  was  him- 
self, not  others,  he  was  serving.  Then  let  others  see  to  it. 
He  was  a  man  of  strong  passions.  Those  who  disliked  him 
told  hard  stories  of  his  past ;  reported  that  he  was  a  miser 
in  his  mature  years  as  he  had  been  a  spendthrift  in  his 
youth.  That  he  was  revengeful — never  forgot  injuries. 
Churlish,  close  in  bargains,  strict  in  abiding  by  the  letter 
of  a  contract.  Hardly  a  man  in  Martindale  but  had  come 
into  collision  with  him  on  one  occasion  or  another.  Does 
the  reader  see  a  quarrelsome,  overbearing,  disagreeable  cy- 
nic ?  That  was  not  Peter  Carradine.  Yet  his  conspicuity 
in  the  region  was  unenviable  ;  he  was  an  isolated  man, 
whose  intercourse  with  the  people  around  seemed  to  ter- 
minate with  the  conclusion  of  business  transactions.  Never 
in  any  social  gatherings — seldom  in  any  public  service,  ex- 
cept that  of  the  government,  was  he  known  to  take  his  part. 
Yet  the  people  of  Martindale,  on  the  word  of  Mrs.  Johnson, 
were  assured  that  he  could  enjoy  his  joke  and  a  long  even- 
ing chat,  and  could  make  himself  agreeable,  if  he  would  but 
take  the  trouble.  It  was  an  assurance,  howerer,  that  was 
not  calculated  to  secure  him  favor.  The  inaccessible  being 
loved  none  the  better  if  we  feel  that  contempt  and  scorn  are 
the  barriers  of  access. 

"  He's  a  curious  man,  a  dreadful  curious  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Johhson  to  Mercy,  who  was  helping  her  to  tie  the  cord 
which  should  by-and-by  support  the  morning-glory  vines, 
when  they  aspired  toward  the  top  of  the  high  picket  fence 
tbat  separated  the  yard  from  the  road-side. 

Mrs.  Johnson  had  determined  that  she  would  pre-occupy, 
with  her  report  of  Mr.  Carradine,  the  verdict  Miss  Fuller 
would  be  sure  to  hear  of  him,  and  the  late  transaction,  from 
the  neighborhood.  She  was  kindly  disposed  towards  Mercy, 
and  could  see  that  it  was  in  her  power  to  save  her  from 


MORNING    GLORY.  45 

doubt  and  annoyance,  by  saying  what   she    had  to  say  at 
once,  before  any  gossip  reached  her. 

"  A  dreadful  curious  man,  and  high-handed.  But  when 
all's  said  and  done,  as  my  man  says,  says  he,  Mr.  Carra* 
dine  is  just.  He's  in  the  right.  He  don't  leap  till  he's 
looked.  You  may  be  put  to  it  now  by  his  way  of  speak- 
ing." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Mercy ;  "  he  is  not  a  man  to  de- 
ceive any  one,  you  can  see  that ;  he  says  just  what  he  means 
— and  I  suppose  it  isn't  likely  I  shall  give  him  occasion  to 
say  anything  to  me  that  would  be  offensive." 

"  Likely  not.  But  he  is  queer.  When  we  first  come  up 
here — oh,  that's  many  a  long  year  since,  Miss  Fuller  ! — and 
he  come  to  live  with  us,  I  tell  you  it  was  difficult  to  know 
how  to  manage  to  get  along  peaceable  sometimes.  If  it 
hadn't  a  been  for  Johnson,  I  couldn't  a  done  it.  But  John- 
son is  another  for  making  peace,  if  Mr.  Carradine  is  going 
for  unmaking  it.  And  he  isn't — not  exactly,  I  like  Mi- 
randa Roy  ;  I  always  liked  Randy,  and  it'll  allus  go  hard 
with  me  for  thinking  it  was  my  boy  that  brought  round  the 
difficulty  that  broke  up  the  school." 

"  What  was  that  ?"  asked  Mercy — the  very  question  Mrs. 
Johnson  had  gone  all  this-way  to  induce  her  to  ask. 

"  She  chastised  him  over  severe.  I  don't  doubt  he  pro- 
voked her  to  it ;  though  he's  my  only  son,  I'll  say  it.  It 
wasn't  right.  But  if  I'd  knowed  in  time,  I  wouldn't  a  had 
the  disturbance,  for  Randy's  sake,  for  she's  a  dreadful  proud 
and  high-strung  girl,  and  'taint  the  way  to  deal  with  such,  I 
feel  to  say  ;  and  for  her  father's  sake,  for  he's  a  saint  in  Is- 
rael, Miss  Fuller,  if  'ary  one  ia  left.  So  he  took  Harry  back 
to  the  school'us,  Mr.  Carradine  did,  and  just  shut  up  the  hull 
concern.  And  that's  how  you  came  to — how  it  happened 
that  there  was  need  of  a  teacher  for  Martindell  school'us.  I 
rode  down  with  him  to  Brighton  city  that  same  afternoon, 
and  he  seemed  pleased,  I  tell  you,  coming  back,  to  think 
of  the  new  teacher." 

Mrs  Johnson,  having  lightened  her  mind  of  the  burden 
of  duty  that  had  weighed  on  her  all  day,  felt  at  this  mo- 
ment equal  to  all  manner  of  farm  affairs,  and  every  emer- 
gency of  her  rural  estate.  Nor  was  she  displeased  to  see 
how  gravely  Miss  Fuller  took  the  information  she  had  given. 

"  Miranda,     did    you    say   her  name  was  ?     I  must  see 


46  PETER    CAREADINE. 

her,"  said  she.  "  I  must  tell  her.  Perhaps  I  can  bring 
her  and  Mr.  Carradine  to  some  understanding,  and  get  her 
back  into  the  school  again.  I  am  so — so  sorry  !" 

'•  Yes, —  yes — I  know  you  are  !  I  thought  you  would 
be  !  But  I'm  surpised  to  hear't — I  be  ;  as  much  as  I  was 
last  night,  when  I  dreamppit  being  drawn  out  of  my  win- 
der. I  thought  it  was  the  resurrection  morning,  Miss  Ful- 
ler— but  they  said  we  must  get  acrost  the  creek  first,  afore 
we  could  go  up — and  that's  what  all  the  people  was  running 
to  do,  but  of  a  sudden,  afore  I  could  stir,  I  was  drawed  out 
of  my  winder,  that  one  you  see  there  with  the  white  curting 
drawed  back  an  inch  or  so,  and  I  went  up,  and  up,  like  an 
arrer,  till  the  pure  joy  woke  me  up.  And  I  had  dreadful 
pleasant  thoughts,  lying  wakeful  after  that.  It  seemed  to  be 
a  promise,  and  I  couldn't  help  of  taking  Johnson  and  Mr. 
Carradine  into  it.  But  you  don't  know  Handy,  and  you 
don't  know  Mr.  Carradine,  if  you  think  you  could  get  her 
back,  or  him  to  let  her  come.  But,  oh  !  I'm  so  uplifted  to 
think  that  you  wanted  to  do  it !  I'm  sure,  now,  I  can  say 
ye'r  welcome  to  Martindell.  Ye'r  welcome,  Miss  Fuller,  to 
the  best't  can  give  ye  !" 

Then  she  went  on  speaking  a  little  louder,  for  she  saw  Mr. 
Carradine  coming  from  the  road. 

"  Yes,  they're  very  purty  when  they're  all  blowed  out. 
When  I  was  a  girl— it  was  along,  sweet  time  ere  I  come  to 
Martindale,  Miss  Fuller  ! — I  used  to  have  mornin'  glories 
all  round  the  fence*  to  my  father's  yard  ;  that  was  such  a 
long  while  ago.  Blue  !  and  purple  !  and  pink  !  and  white  !" 
— She  enumerated  with  an  emphasis  which  Mr.  Carradine, 
who  stopped  as  he  came  within  the  gate,  smiled  to  hear,  and 
he  went  on  to  the  house  with  the  smile  still  on  his  face,  as  if 
he  had  looked  into  the  heart,  just  then  of  a  white  morning 
glory. 


NATURE    AND     GRACE.  47 


CHAPTER  Y. 


NATURE       AND       GRACE. 

THE  next  day,  being  the  second  day  of  Miss  Fuller's 
reign,  the  afternoon  school  was  broken  up  at  an  earlier  hour 
than  usual,  and  the  little  people  went  flying  along  the  roads, 
and  meadow,  and  wood-paths,  in  various  directions,  hasting 
homeward,  in  order  to  escape  the  violent  storm  that  was 
approaching. 

Mercy  also  was  on  her  way  up  the  hill,  thinking  she  should 
reach  the  red  farm-house  ere  the  down-pour.  But  she  had 
not  calculated  well.  She  had  not  gone  half-way  when  the 
clouds  met,  with  the  shock  of  lightning  and  a  swift  and 
keen  report.  As,  with  flying  steps,  she  approached  the  lane 
that  led  down  to  the  house  of  Samuel  Roy,  the  old  man,  half 
blinded  by  the  dust,  and  struggling  with  the  wind,  advan- 
ced from  the  opposite  direction  ;  they  laid  their  hands  upon 
the  gate  at  one  moment,  and  with  one  purpose,  and  it  requi- 
red the  strength  of  both  to  throw  it  open. 

It  was  enough  for  Roy  to  see  that  a  woman  was  caught  in 
the  storm. 

"  Come  in !  come  in't  the  house  !"  he  said,  and  they  ran 
together  down  the  lane. 

"  Beats  all ! — Beats  all !"  cried  the  old  man,  as  he  came  up 
panting  behind  the  stranger,  who  had  thrown  open  the  door 
of  the  house,  and  stood  now  dripping  like  a  mermaid,  under 
the  shelter  of  his  roof, 

"  Step  right  in,  right  in!"  said  he,  gaining  the  landing. 
"  Step  in  till  I  shut  the  door,"  but  it  required  again  the 
united  strength  of  both,  the  wind  blew  with  such  violence. 
"  Thank  ye  ;  I  ain't  ekel  to  anything  as  I  was  once,"  and  he 


48  PETER   CARRADINE. 

slipped,  panting  and  pale,  into  his  high-back  rocking-chair. 
When  he  called  for  his  daughter : 

"  Randy  ! — where's  Randy  ?' 

Her  work  was  on  the  table,  the  patch-work  she  was  sew- 
ing ;  she  had  only  left  the  room  the  .moment  before,  to 
see  if  there  was  anything  about  the  house  exposed  to 
damage  of  the  storm.  She  had  been  sitting  there  in  the 
dead  silence,  thinking  of  Senior  Jobson,  and  devising 
methods  by  which  her  father  might  be  won  over  to  his  side  ; 
recalling  whatsoever  would  be  likely  to  lessen  his  prejudice 
against  Senior  ;  thinking  of  the  Spread  Eagle's  new  wings, 
and  satisfying  herself  that  she  had  done,  and  would  do,  well 
and  wisely,  when  the  rising  of  the  storm  broke  up  her  me- 
ditation, and  summoned  her  from  her  work. 

When  she  heard  the  voices  and  her  father's  call,  she  came 
into  the  room,  hoping  that  it  might  be  Mr.  Jobson  who  had 
brought  her  father  home,  and  himself  sought  shelter  in  the 
house  ;  but  when  her  eyes  fell  on  a  stranger's  face,  it  was 
evident  to  that  stranger  that  she  was  not  warmly  welcome. 
The  kind  and  friendly  face  was  not  an  agreeable  sight  to  Mi- 
randa. She  knew,  of  course,  that  this  could  be  no  one  but  Miss 
Fuller,  and  she  was  not  a  cold-blooded  philosopher,  but  a 
warm-blooded  woman,  and  that  there  was  no  reason  in  her 
present  indignation,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  She 
was  indignant  to  see  Miss  Fuller  standing  there — indignant 
to  perceive  that  she  was  such  a  person  ;  for  how  was  she  to 
see  an  enemy  in  one  whose  aspect  was  so  mild  and  friendly? 

Miss  Fuller  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  spoil  your  white  floor.  But  you  see 
how  it  is — and  this  gentleman  was  so  kind  as  to  let  me  in." 
She  smiled  as  she  looked  at  herself  and  saw  the  plight  she 
was  in. 

"  You've  spoiled  your  dress,"  said  Randy,  "  It  don't  mat- 
ter about  the  floor.  Father,  your  dry  clothes  are  hanging 
up  in  the  entry.  Sit  ye  down."  She  pushed  a  chair  to- 
wards Mercy  as  she  spoke.  The  noise  she  made  in 
doing  it  seemed  to  shame  her  ill  manners,  and  with  a  flushed 
face  she  took  up  the  chair  and  carried  it  to  her  guest. 
"  Father,  remember  your  rheumatis." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Randy  I'm  going.  Bat  I'm  so  beat — beat," 
said  the  old  man,  looking  anxiously  from  his  daughter  to  the 
stranger,  whom  he  also  by  this  time  was  persuaded  could 


NATURE    AND     GRACE.  49 

be  none  other  than  the  new  teacher.  "  She  never'd  a'  lived 
to  clumb  the  hill.  I  look  on  it  as  a  Providence  she'd  got 
by  our  gate  as  I  came  from  the  lot ;"  his  explanation  sound- 
ed like  an  apology  for  bringing  the  stranger  into  the  house, 
and  he  did  intend  it  for  one.  Miranda  understood  it,  and 
said  quickly : 

"  It  would  a'  b«n  a  pity  if  she'd  tired  in  such  a  storm, 
with  Samuel  Roy's  house  near  by.  Time  the  girl  knew 
where  she  is,"  thought  she. 

"  Then  you  are  his  daughter  ?"  said  Mercy.  "  You  are 
Miss  Roy  ?" 

"  Yes,  that's  Randy,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  still  anx- 
iously from  one  young  face  to  the  other ;  speaking  quickly 
— so  anxious  for  peace. 

"  My  name  is  Mercy  Fuller,"  she  said,  and  she  offered 
her  hand  to  the  old  man.  He  took  it  into  his  hard  palm 
and  said,  looking  at  her  in  his  serious,  steady  way  : 

"  It's  a  good  name." 

"  It  was  my  mother's,"  she  answered.  "  There  could  not 
be  a  better  name." 

"  She's  a  living  yet,  I  hope." 

"  No  ;   not  these  many  years." 

"  Oh,  then,  that's  a  long  time  for  you  to  be  remembering 
of  her." 

"  But  we  never  forget  those  we  love." 

"  You've  got  the  rights  of  it !  Randy  and  I  know  that's 
true.  She's  been  dead  now  this  ten  year  ;  it's  long  to  live 
after  her  ;  but  it  might  a'  been  yesterday,  for  the  fresh  feel- 
ing when  we  think  of  her.  You — you  ought  'o  have  a  dry 
gownd,  Miss."  So  saying,  with  a  look  at  his  daughter  that 
was  urgent,  the  old  man  went  into  the  next  room. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  the  wetting,"  answered  Mercy  to  this 
hint,  for  she  saw  the  perplexity  into  which  Miranda  was 
thrown  by  it.  Then  said  Miranda  : 

"  I  can  get  dry  clothes  for  you,  ma'am,  but  I  won't  speak 
for  the  fit." 

The  decision  with  which  the  offer  was  declined  set  Ran- 
dy's mind  at  rest. 

"  I  never  saw  a  storm  come  up  so  rapidly,"  said  Mercy. 

"  I  watched  it  for  an  hour — the  sky  was  looking  awful," 
answered  Miranda. 

8 


50  PETER   CARRADINE. 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  and  an  awkward  silence,  broken 
presently  by  Mercy,  who  said  : 

"  I  was  coming  in  to  see  you  very  soon,  Miss  Hoy  ;  I 
would  have  chosen  to  come  when  the  day  was  fair,  instead 
of  such  a  storm  as  this,  when  I  seem  to  have  been  driven 
in.  I  wanted  to  see  you." 

"  What  for  ?"  asked  Miranda.  • 

"  Mrs.  Johnson  told  me  about  you  and  the  school." 

"  I  expect  she  did,  of  course." 

"  She  likes  you  well.  I  think  no  one  could  regret  more 
what  has  happened.  If  I  had  known  the  circumstances,  I 
would  not  have  come  to  Martindale.  If  you  will  try  to  come 
to  an  understanding  with  Mr.  Carradine,  I  promise  to  help 
you ;  you  shall  have  the  school,  and  I  will  go  back  to 
Brighton." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  you  for  the  world  !"  exclaimed  Randy, 
surprised  beyond  measure  that  the  stranger  should  have 
taken  up  the  business  iu  this  spirit.  She  had  banded  to- 
gether all  who  had  to  do  with  Mr.  Carradine — Mrs.  John- 
son, the  new  teacher,  and  the  rest — as  a  company  in  league 
against  her.  But  it  seemed  the  fact  was  something  dif- 
ferent 

"  There  are  a  hundred  places  I  might  find,"  returned  the 
teacher ;  "  vacancies,  you  understand,  which  I  could  fill 
without  exciting  any  unpleasant  feeling.  I  never  could 
forgive  myself  if  I  had  come  here  knowing  all  the  circum- 
stances. I  can  say  that  without  deciding  your  difficulty 
with  Mr.  Carradine,  one  way  or  the  other.  But  now  let  me 
be  a  peacemaker  between  you." 

"  Don't  !"  said  Randy,  as  if  she  feared  that,  without  her 
consent,  against  her  wish,  the  reconciliation  might  in  some 
unforeseen  way,  be  effected.  Then  she  added,  "  You 
couldn't  manage  it ;  you  don't  know  Mr.  Carradine.  And 
if  you  did,  I  wouldn't  go  back.  As  long  as  I  live,  I'll  never 
teach  in  Martindale  school-house !  But,"  she  continued 
more  quietly,  "  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  not  being  my 
enemy." 

"  I  hope  we  shall  be  friends.  I  wanted  an  opportunity  to 
explain  this  to  you.  It  would  be  pleasanter  to  me  to  know 
that  you  liked  to  have  me  in  the  neighborhood  all  summer.1' 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Randy — she  was  going  to  say  that 


NATURE  AND    GRACE.  51 

she  didn't  know  what  she  had  to  do  with  Miss  Fuller's  stay- 
ing anywhere — but  she  checked  herself,  and  Mercy  said  : 

"  We  ought  to  understand,  by  what  we  feel  ourselves, 
that  it  is  not  right  to  make  up  our  mind  suddenly  about  any- 
body's actions." 

"  That's  so  !"  said  Mr.  Roy,  who,  standing  clad  in  his  dry 
garments  just  outside  the  sitting-room — ^within  his  bed- 
chamber— had  heard  these  words  with  remarkable  satis- 
faction. 

"  One  who  could  see  both  sides  and  all  sides  of  every 
question  would  pass  very  different  judgments  from  ours, 
many  times." 

"  The  Almighty  is  the  only  one  who  can  do  that — the  only 
one  who  can  be  trusted  to  the  full,  for  perfec  justice.  So  I 
tell  Handy,  here.  But  she's  wonderful  tried  about  Carra- 
dine's  going  on  in  the  school'us.  And  p'raps  she  was  hasty. 
And  maby  he  was  hasty — wrong't  both  sides.  I  shouldn't 
wonder,  ma'm.  But  it  come  hard,  old  neighbors  so.  I  nev- 
er was  much  for  chastising  ;  she  was  all  I  had.  But  there's 
some  that  needs  it.  Spare  the  rod  and  spile  the  child.  I'm 
agin  letting  'em  run  over  you  roughshod ;  but  it's  dreadful 
difficult  dealing  with  children,  and  I'm  not  overly  sorry  it's 
come,  though  I'd  liked  it  to  come  different.  For  what  with  it 
all,  she  was  wearing  out." 

"  That's  what  father  thinks,"  explained  Randy,  as  if  she 
was  not  to  be  confounded  with  the  old  man  in  his  expression 
of  sentiments. 

"  A  wearing  hard,"  he  repeated  with  decision.  "What 
with  getting  up  afore  the  break  of  day,  to  get  the  hum  work 
done,  and  a  hurrying  time  at  noon,  and  work  agin  till  nine 
o'clock  at  night,  I  say  'twas  too  much.  It  would  'a  broke 
her  down." 

"  A  great  deal  too  much,"  said  Mercy  ;  "  and  if  that  was 
the  way  you  went  on,  we  ought  not  to  be  sorry  that  another 
person  does  your  work  with  the  children.  It  makes  me 
more  content  to  stay  here." 

"  I'm  through  with  teaching,  nothing's  surer,"  said  Mi- 
randa. "  As  long  as  I  live  I'm  through  with  it.  All  the 
Carradines  in  creation  couldn't  bring  me  back." 

"  It  ain't  the  work  for  her  ;  but  now  tell  us,  do  you  like 
school-teaching,  ma'm?"  asked  Samuel,  nervously,  so  de- 


52  PETER    CAERADINE. 

sirous  to  smooth  away  the  possible  results  of  his  daughter's 
hasty  speech,  that  he  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Yes  ;  that's  my  business  in  this  world.  I  expect  to  be 
a  teacher  always — of  course  I  must  like  it  ;  and  I  do." 

"  It's  good  to  set  hand  to  work  with  that  mind  in  ye  for 
it,"  said  Samuel.  "  When  I  come  into  Martindell  it  was  a 
big  piece  of  forest  all  through  the  valley  ;  heavy  timbered 
land.  But  there !  I'd  paid  my  money  down,  and  got  my 
papers — nothing  for't  but  to  go  straight  through.  Here  I've 
been  now  over  thirty  years,  and  the  capital  I  started  with  is 
what's  kep  me  gwine.  And  that's  good  courage  !  as  I  tell 
daughter.  Straight  ahead,  sez  I.  No  looking  back.  Fits 
and  starts  won't  do  the  business.  It's  straight  ahead  does 
that.  We  had  a  young  man  up  here  preaching.  What's  his 
name,  Randy.  I'm  dreadful  forgetting  of  names." 

"  .Mr.  Collamer." 

"  Collamer — Mr.  Collamer,  He  says  it's  so  in  religion, 
as  in  everything  else.  It's  the  old  straight  way.  You  get  out 
o'  that,  and  you're  lost,  sez  he.  Jes  so  with  everything 
else.  It's  a  keeping  to  one  thing.  So,  ma'm,  it's  my  opin- 
ion, if  yer  going  to  school-keeping,  you'll  make  the  first-rate 
of  a  teacher.  But  Randy's  call  ain't  that  way." 

"  What  way  is  it,  father  ?"  asked  she  ;  and  she  spoke 
pleasantly,  though  she  was  not  wholly  pleased. 

The  old  man  heard  more  in  the  words  than  Mercy  did  ; 
he  looked  at  his  daughter  with  his  steady  serious  gaze,  and 
answered  slowly  : 

"  It's  to  be  a  poor  man's  daughter — cause  that's  what 
you  be  ;  and  whatever  else  He  pleases,  as  I  humbly  hope." 

"  Whatever  happens,"  she  said,  as  if  amending  his  ex- 
pression. 

"  We  won't  argyfy  it,"  he  replied.  "  Randy  and  I  don't 
agree  yet  about  that.  But  I'm  free  to  believe  we  will ;  and 
I'm  bound  to  believe  what's  writ,  not  to  be  wise  above  it. 
Scriptur's  scriptur  for  me.  But  she  isn't  settled  yet  about 
natur  and  grace." 

"  I  don't  think  Providence's  going  out  of  His  way  to 
favor  me.  I  don't  expect  He  will  bring  things  to  pass  be- 
cause I  want,  that's  all,"  said  Randy,  explaining  her  posi- 
tion in  a  spirit  of  self-depreciatiop,  that  equalled  the  haugh- 
tiest pride  in  its  offensiveness. 

"  She  puts  Him  fur  off,"  said  the  old   man,   "  He  don't 


NATURE    AND    GRACE.  53 

seem  so  to  me.  Not  so  fur  as  you  be,  Miss  Fuller.  For 
what  does  the  Record  say  ?  God  is  greater  than  our  hearts, 
and  knoweth  all  things.  He's  a  living  in  us.  She's  for 
thinking  Him  far  off,  a'yond  the  Rocky  Mountains,  I'm  afear- 
ed.  But  it  'pears  to  me  He  is  quicker  to  hear  when  I  speak 
than  she  is,  for  the  reason  that  He  knows  afore  I  ask  what  I 
am  longing  fur  ;  and  put  the  wish  into  me,  if  I  live  by  faith. 
Yes  !  yes  !  glory  to  God !  nearer  to  nje  than  my  child,  for 
He's  my  God  !  Now,  I'm  free  to  say,  I  was  took  back  about 
that  school  business,  ma'm,  but  I've  seen  since,  it's  right 
It's  all  right.  Bless  your  soul,  all  right." 

A  feeble  creature'was  old  Roy  ;  utterly  contemptible  if 
brought  into  the  glare  of  worldly  illumination.  Feeble,  waver- 
ing, patched  and  poor.  His  faith  was  the  sum  of  him.  But 
look  what  it  did  for  him.  Any  text  of  Scripture  in  which 
was  any  Divine  healing  or  uplifting  power,  could  save  him  in 
temptation,  in  despondency,  in  pain,  in  poverty.  And  his 
mind  was  wrapped  up  in  these  sacred  balsams.  His  life 
was  covered  with  these  sacred  "  charms." 

His  daughter  seemed  to  have  heard  and  seen  too  much  of 
this  ;  she  was  unlike  him — bolder  to  wish  and  long  for,  to 
plan  and  to  attempt.  She  was  more  ambitious,  and  more 
headstrong,  than  he  had  ever  been.  But  her  conscience 
was  as  sensitive  as  his,  and  set  to  watch  and  guard  in  the 
midst  of  such  opposing  forces  as  made  up  her  character  ! 

She  turned  now  to  Mercy,  with  intent  to  change  the  con- 
versation, and  asked  : 

"  How  do  you  think  you'll  like  living  in  a  farming 
country  ?  Won't  you  find  it  lonesome  ?" 

"  It  is  delightful  to  me — it  is  a  great  while  since  I  had 
anything  like  the  rest  I  know  I  shall  have  here  ;  and  if  I 
stay,  it  will  be  because  you  wish  it — because  you  are 
friendly  towards  me,"  she  said  returning  to  that  point. 

"  I've  nought  against  you,  I  am  sure,"  said  Randy.  "  It's 
agreeable  to  me  to  know  what  you  are  here  for." 

The  old  man,  delighted  to  hear  this  polite  speech,  hasten- 
ed to  deepen  its  impression. 

"  It's  a  purty  valley  as  you'll  find,"  said  he.  "  I've  been 
through  all  this  section  ;  there's  nought  goes  ayond  Martin- 
dell.  You  wouldn't  find  it  lonesome,  I  should  think. 
There's  no  purtier  meador  land.  And  the  woods  and 


54  PETER     CARRADINE. 

brooks  you've  got  to  find  out  yet.    Martindell  isn't  the  worst 
place  in  the  world." 

Old  Roy  was  not  a  Captain  Cook,  neither  a  Bayard  Tay- 
lor, to  be  sure.  You  might  perform  on  foot  all  his  journeys 
without  making  yourself  famous.  Love  gave  him  the  know- 
ledge he  assumed  in  this  decision  ;  and  his  listener  did  not 
object  to  his  conclusion.  That  pleased  him,  and  while  the 
storm  was  expending  its  strength  she  listened  to  all  he  had 
to  say  of  Martindale. 


ONE    KIND    OF    SYMPATHY.  55 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ONE       KIND       OF       SYMPATHY. 

THE  evening  sky  was  without  a  cloud.  The  sun,  at  part- 
ing, thrilled  the  heavens,  as  your  soul  is  thrilled  in  an  hour  of 
separation.  The  pink  flush  changed  to  purple,  and  light 
that  seemed  impassioned  throbbed  through  the  firmament ; 
but,  at  length,  through  the  depths  of  emotion,  came  tremu- 
lous, and  yet  assured,  the  evening  star  ;  and  a  divine  calm- 
ness overspread  all  things. 

Miranda  walked  from  the  house  up  the  lane,  and  looked 
over  the  great  farm  gate.  As  she  came  along,  she  noticed 
the  print  of  Miss  Fuller's  steps,  and  she  was  thinking  of 
Mercy,  when,  looking  down  the  road,  she  saw  the  Elder's 
daughter  coming,  and  knew  of  course,  that  Sally's  errand 
concerned  her,  whatever  it  might  be. 

It  was  of  Sally  also  that  she  had  been  thinking  when  she 
left  the  house  and  walked  up  to  the  gate  ;  she  hoped  that 
some  lucky  chance  would  bring  them  together. 

"  I  had  a  feeling  you  would  come,"  said  she,  as  Sally 
drew  near.  "  You  always  send  a  warning  beforehand." 
llandy's  eyes  were  full  of  admiration  as  they  fixed  on  Sally, 
and  that  Sally  could  plainly  see  ;  it  made  her  more  compla- 
cent. 

"  How  is  that  ?"  she  asked,  as  she  passed  through  the 
gate. 

"  I  begin  by  wanting  you,  and  then  you  come." 

"  Always  1  Every  time  ?  Don't  it  fail  sometimes  ?  Don't 
you  ever  want  me  except  when  I  come  ?"  Exacting  even  here 
by  force  of  habit,  what  proof  should  she  require  of  llandy's 
love,  expressed  a  hundred  times,  and  after  every  fashion  ? 

"  Maybe.  "VYho  do  you  think  I  had  for  a  visitor  all 
through  the  storm  ?  Come,  now  !" 

"  Mr.  Carradine,  I  guess." 


56  PETER    CARRADINE. 

"  No.  Mr.  Carradine ! — He  don't  come  this  way,  mind 
you,  te  his  farm." 

'  It  would  be  a  short  cut  by  the  west  road,"  said  Sally. 

'  He  don't  take  such  short  cuts." 

'  Miss  Fuller?" 

•  Yes." 

'  No." 

'  Miss  Fuller.  She  came  flying  down  the  lane  with  fath- 
er, and  if  they  had  been  both  dipped  into  the  creek,  they 
couldn't  have  looked  more  dripping.  I  had  to  laugh." 

"  I  should  have  thought  she  would  have  kept  the  road, 
and  took  the  drenching  before  she  would  come  in." 

"  Father  asked  her.  She  didn't  know  who  he  was — and, 
as  near  as  I  understand,  she  helped  him — he  was  half  blind- 
ed by  the  rain,  and  the  lightning  was  terrible." 

"  It  struck  the  big  elm  in  our  wheat  lot,  and  tore  it  open 
like  a  sheet  of  paper.  Grandma  saw  it,  and  I  heard  her  say- 
ing, what  if  the  Millerites  was  true  ?  Wasn't  that  queer  for 
grandma  ?" 

"  She  said  she  would  have  come  down  anyway  if  it  hadn't 
a  rained — some  time.  And  she  was  sorry  to  have  it  seem  as 
if  she  just  come  for  the  shelter.  I  think  she  ivould  have 
come.  She  wants  we  should  be  friends." 

"  Oh,  yes — of  course." 

"  I  think  she  means  it." 

"  Why  shouldn't  she  mean  it,  Randy  ?" 

"  I  didn't  expect  it  of  her." 

"  I  expect  anything.  Didn't  you  say  you  supposed  Mr. 
Carradine  had  it  all  in  his  mind,  and  trumped  up  the  excuse 
to  get  her  in  ?" 

"  Make  me  eat  my  words  ;  that's  right !  Well,  I  will.  I 
said  so — but  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  She's  of  a  mind 
to  go  away  from  Martindale  if  I  only  speak  the  word.  She 
wants  to  make  peace  between  us,  and  get  me  back  into  the 
school." 

"  It's  likely  !  Peter  Carradino  won't  be  a  bachelor  six 
months  from  now,"  returned  Sally,  coming  out  with  the  re- 
sult of  her  day's  reflection — unchanged  in  her  conviction  by 
Randy's  present  mood  and  statement. 

"  You  think  she  would  marry  him  ?" 

«  Yes— I  believe  it." 

"  Just  as  soon  as  she  would  marry  a — a — a  hedgehog." 


ONE    KIND    OF    SYMPATHY.  57 

"  Well,  now  you've  said  it!" 

"  I  mean  she  couldn't  in  the  nature  of  things.  Why,  have 
you  seen  Mercy  Puller  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  called  up  there  with  grandma,  yesterday.  I 
couldn't  help  it ;  I  didn't  want  to  go.  She's  to  come  to  our 
house  next.  I  think  I'll  come  over  here  and  stay  that 
week." 

"  No  you  won't ;  you'll  stay  at  home,  and  before  next 
Saturday  night  you'll  be  repenting  in  dust  and  ashes  for 
what  you  have  said.  I  know  you,  Sally  ;  better  than  you 
know  yourself.  I  don't  much  like  her,  and  that's  honest ; 
but  I  can  see  how  it  stands.  She  isn't  to  blame  for  having 
my  place.  She  wanted  a  situation — that's  what  she's  got. 
She's  well  enough.  We  won't  be  running  across  each  oth- 
er's path,  I  reckon." 

"  How  do  you  like  her  looks,  Randy  ?" 

"  She's  good-looking.  Very  pretty,  I  expect,"  answered 
Randy,  flaring  out  into  a  little  generosity,  for  with  her,  just 
now,  mere  justice  was  real  generosity.  "  She  has  a  pleas- 
ant voice — father  liked  to  hear  her  talk.  But  I  didn't  seem 
to  agree  with  them,  you  know.  She  never  lived  in  a  farm- 
ing country  like  this  ;  but  in  a  school-house  pretty  much  ; 
seminary,  she  called  it.  She  expects  to  be  a  teacher 
always — of  course  that  don't  mean  in  such  a  school-house  as 
ours." 

"  What  did  you  say,  Randy  ?" 

"  I  said  I  was  glad  she  had  come.  And  I  am  !  She  came 
for  her  health,  and  I  hope  she'll  find  it.  There  !  I  do.  It 
wasn't  her,  but  Mr.  Carradine  that  was  to  blame.  Maybe 
he  wasn't !  I  expect  nobody  is  much  to  blame  for  anything. 
Only  I  hope  he  will  just  keep  out  of  my  way,  you  know." 

Randy's  lip  quivered  as  she  spoke  thus,  and  she  slowly 
closed  and  opened  her  eyes,  that  the  tears  gathering  within 
the  lids  might  have  opportunity  to  disperse  in  secret. 

"  Nobody  minds  what  Peter  Carradine  says,  I  should 
think,"  said  Sally  Green.  "  Don't  you  mind  him,  Randy." 

"  I?" 

"  Yes.     No  wonder  you  called  him  a  hedgehog." 

"  I  didn't,  Sally  !     I  never  called  him  so.     I  said — " 

"  Oh,  well — I  know.  It's  all  the  same.  If  you  just  look 
at  him,  and  then  Mr.  Collamer  !  And  he's  your  friend.  And 
so  is  all  the  rest  of  Martindale,  I'm  sure.1' 

3 


58  PETER   CAR11ADINE. 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  Mr.  Collamer  will  come  up  before 
the  Camp  Meeting  ?" 

"  He's  coining  next  Sunday,  for  sure.  Yes  ;  he's  going  to 
Camp  Meeting  too.  You  won't  have  the  school  to  hinder 
you  now,  Randy,  and  you  can  stay  a  good  part  of  the  week. 
You  can  tell  your  father  there'll  be  room  for  him  too.  '  I 
want  to  go — I  want  to  go — I  want  to  go  there  too  !'  "  she 
ended  by  singing  this  line  of  the  refrain  of  a  sacred  old 
song. 

Very  sweetly  the  young  girl's  voice  sounded  in  the  still- 
ness of  evening.  Old  Mr.  Roy  heard  it,  and  it  set  him  to 
singing  by  the  hour  in  his  kitchen. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Randy,  "  that  Mr.  Collamer  will  be  the 
man  worth  hearing  ;  but  it  will  be  pleasant  to  go  to  the 
meeting.  To  get  away  from  work  a  little  while,  and  have  a 
change — I  am  sure  I  shall  enjoy  it."  She  spoke  wearily, 
and  her  face  was  sad. 

"  I  can  hardly  wait  for  the  time  to  come,"  said  Sally. 

"  He  makes  you  want  to  believe  what  he  believes,  he  seems 
so  sure  of  every  thing  he  says,"  aaid  Randy,  seriously. 

"  Grandma  told  him  your  case,  Randy." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  the  reception  of  that  intel- 
ligence had  produced  a  result  in  Randy  far  beyond  either 
Sally's  anticipation  or  her  own  ;  but  she  rallied  before  Sally 
could  speak,  and  said  : 

"  She  couldn't — I  couldn't,  no  one  could  !  But  father 
says  it's  all  right — and  he  is  a  happy  man  in  his  religion,  if 
ever  anybody  was.  And  so  I  try  to  think  with  him  ;  but 
grandma  Green  couldn't  explain  it.  What  did  he  say  when 
she  told  him  ?"  she  added,  trying  to  conceal  the  timidity 
with  which  she  proposed  so  simple  a  question. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sally. 

She  did  know,  however.  She  remembered  that  the  min- 
ister had  quoted  the  lines  of  Cowper's  hymn  : 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, 
His  wonders  to  perform." 

And  when  Randy  acknowledged,  "  I  don't  know,  but 
there  isn't  a  person  I'd  rather  have  think  me  an  unbeliever. 
But  it  don't  seem  to  me  I  am."  Her  friend  did  not  explain 
what  she  had  seen  quite  clearly,  that  the  minister  had  not 
considered  Randy's  case  so  very  dark  and  strange  as  grand- 


ONE    KIND    OF    SYMPATHY.  59 

ma  seemed  to  do.  "  Anyway,'5  continued  Randy,  "  I 
wouldn't  miss  of  hearing  him  preach  in  the  woods." 

"  He  preaches  at  you  so  it's  terrifying,  though/' 

"  That's  what  I  like.  He  is  speaking  to  you.  And  he 
has  enough  to  say." 

"  Dumb  as  a  door-nail  in  the  house  though." 

"  You  don't  like  him,  that's  plain." 

"  You  do  ;    that's  plainer." 

This  charge  occasioned  an  incredible  disturbance.  It 
vexed  and  troubled  Randy  to  an  extent  that  surprised  her 
who  brought  it.  Astonished  at  herself,  Miranda  said: 

"  I  like  him,  yes — as  you  say,  I  do.  I  like  him  better 
than  any  preacher  I  ever  heard  in  meeting.'' 

"  Yes,  pretty  good.  He's  young,  though,"  said  Sally. 
" I've  heard  better  ;  but  he's  good  enough,  to  be  sure,  for 
folks  here  in  Martindale." 

I  am  ashamed  of  Sally  Green  ;  but  from  her  cradle  the 
girl  had  learned  to  conceal  herself — 'to  circumvent,  connive, 
contrive — to  have  her  own  way.  To  conquer  herself;  to 
choose  the  will  of  another  ;  to  prefer  another's  pleasure  to 
her  own  in  insignificant  matters,  which  her  choice  could  have 
rendered  significant,  which  her  choice  did  render  so,  she 
no  more  aimed  at  such  a  course  than  will  the  child  your 
neighbor  trains  up  to  believe  that  the  universe  waits  his 
pleasure.  Fortunately  for  the  neighborhood,  she  was  desti- 
tute of  the  energetic  will  that  would  have  carried  into  ope- 
ration the  tendencies  of  her  nature.  Martindale  was  thus 
delivered  from  a  fiery  scourge. 

Up  to  this  hour  she  and  Randy  had  supposed  they  under- 
stood each  other.  The  way  in  which,  suddenly,  new  paths 
opened  before  each,  the  way  in  which  the  light  fell  on  those 
paths,  had  taken  both  by  surprise.  Those  paths  would  carry 
them  far  away  from  each  other.  Would  they  enter  them  ? 

They  stood  talking  till  dark  on  these  matters  of  common 
interest  ;  then  Randy  let  Sally  go,  without  betraying  Senior 
Jobson's  secret, 

She  fully  intended,  however,  when  she  went  back  to  the 
house,  to  speak  to  her  father  about  Senior  Jobson.  She  had 
one  or  two  acts  to  relate  that  were  to  the  innkeeper's  cred- 
it ;  facts  calculated,  she  thought,  to  lessen  the  old  man's 
prejudices ;  but,  though  the  opportunity  was  not  unfavor- 
able, she  lacked  the  will  to  make  good  use  of  it ;  they  talked 


60  TETER   CARRADINE. 

a  little  about  the  weather,  and  the  prospects  for  to-morrow  ; 
arranging  the  order  of  the  farm-work  ;  and  then  the  short 
evening  ended,  as  usual,  with  a  prayer. 

"  But,"  said  Randy,  lying  wakeful  long  after  her  father's 
heavy  breathing  announced  from  the  next  room  his  heavy 
sleep,  "  I'll  speak  to  him  to-morrow.  I  must  bring  him  to 
see  it.  Once  that  debt's  paid,  I'll  be  able  to  rest  again.  If 
it  wasn't  for  father,  I'd  know  what  to  do.  I'd  get  out  of 
Martindale.  But  that's  a  Providence,  he  says.  He  would 
be  able  to  take  Senior  for  a  Providence  too,  I  should  think. 
I  could  keep  a  good  tavern  ;  it  wouldn't  be  so  lonesome 
down  there.  Senior  would  take  a  new  turn  if  he  was  mar- 
ried. He  has  money  ;  he  could  do  what  he  promises.  I 
should  think  myself  lucky  to  be  able  to  help  father;  he's 
too  old  to  work,  and  the  farm  going  to  ruin  for  want  of  a  man 
to  manage  it.  To  live  here  under  Carradine's  feet  too. 
Senior  always  liked  me — I  can  remember,  so  long  ago,  when 
he  set  me  up  on  the  bar  and  kissed  me,  and  asked  me  if  I 
wouldn't  come  to  be  his  wife,  and  help  him  keep  the 
tavern — I  wonder  if  he  was  thinking  of  it  then — I  don't 
suppose  he  could  be  brought  to  keep  a  temperance.  This 
would  suit  father,  though." 

So,  unconsciously,  the  thinking  woman  passed  into  a 
dreamer,  and  was  at  rest. 


THIRTY    MILES,     AND    MORE.  61 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THIRTY     MILES,     AND     MORE. 

AMONG  these  green  fields,  then,  the  fine  farm  lands  of  this 
broad  and  pleasant  valley,  there  was  unrest  and  suspicion, 
deceit  and  passion,  greed  and  trouble  !  The  human  heart 
was  there — and  the  human  voice  !  Speech,  which  emerges 
from  the  heights  and  depths,  an  inefficient  messenger,  whose 
trumpet  seems  pledged  to  give  forth  an  uncertain  sound. 

Let  Miss  Fuller  descend  from  Mr.  Carradine's  farm-house 
to  the  house  of  Elder  Green. 

She  has  been  four  days  in  Martindale,  and  Mrs.  Johnson 
says  : 

"  Yes,  Huldy  Green  wants  to  begin  the  reg'lar  way — and 
that  is  right.  More  or  less,  we  don't  make  nothing  of  the 
teacher's  stay  with  us,  but  the  rest  is  dreadful  partik'lar.  So 
you'll  begin  the  Saturday  night  in  a  new  place.  You  needn't 
mind  it.  You  can't  feel  strange  at  the  Elder's  after  half 
an  hour.  You  will  like  Sally  Green.  She's  more  a  com- 
panion like,  for  Sally's  been  eddicated.  She  was  sent  to  town 
a  good  many  quarters.  The  Elder,  he  hasn't  but  one  ;  and 
he's  great  on  eddication.  And  mother  Green,  and  Huldy, 
and  the  Elder,  all  of  'em,  they're  the  best  of  people." 

So  it  was  that  Mercy  Fuller  would  go  down  to  Elder 
Green's,  to  the  old  brown  farm-house,  surrounded  by  poplar 
trees,  conspicuous  from  whichever  direction  you  chose  to  ap- 
proach Martindale. 

Encouraged  by  Mrs.  Johnson's  assurances  in  regard  to 
the  inmates  of  that  dwelling,  Mercy  said  "  Good-bye"  to 
Mrs.  Johnson,  but  she  had  taken  only  a  few  steps  down  the 
road  when  she  recollected  what  Johnson  had  told  her,  that 
a  little  distance  beyond  them,  further  up  the  hill,  she  could 
get  a  view  "  of  thirty  miles  of  country  straight  ahead  !"  A 


62  PETER   CAKRAD1NE. 

desire  to  look  that  far  this  evening  drew  her  back,  instead 
of  forward  :  she  had  plenty  of  time — soon  enough,  at  least 
before  dark,  she  should  arrive  at  Elder  Green's.  Backward, 
therefore,  until  she  came  near  to  a  little  enclosure,  sur- 
rounded by  walls  of  evergreen,  cedar,  and  young  pine  trees, 
within  which  were  two  white  and  two  gray  gravestones,  for 
this  was  the  burial-place  where  slept  Mr.  Carradine's  dead. 
Surprised  by  this  discovery,  Mercy  stood  hesitating  whethe- 
she  should  cross  the  fence  and  read  the  inscriptions,  when 
Mr.  Carradine,  who  had  been  at  work  in  the  enclosure,  came 
out,  bringing  an  armful  of  dead  branches  he  had  cut  from 
the  hedge. 

He,  too,  seemed  to  be  surprised,  mainly  that  she  should 
be  walking  in  the  road  alone,  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  it. 
True,  he  was  never  lonely  in  his  lonely  toil — he  had  not  for 
years  known  what  it  was  to  want  companionship,  though  he 
had  little  of  it.  But  he  could  not  see  that  solitude  was 
the  best,  or  most  natural  thing,  for  the  young  teacher. 
When  he  found  that  she  was  going  further  up  the  hill,  he 
dropped  the  rubbish  he  carried,  brushed  the  dust  from  his 
coat,  and  was  ready  to  accompany  her ;  not  because  he 
thought  his  company  would  please  her — he  argued  from  the 
opposite  postulate. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  as  they  walked  along  together,  "  you'll 
get  a  noble  view  to-night— a  broad  thirty  miles.  If  it  was 
only  morning,  you  could  see  Mr.  Martin's  house  quite  plain 
— you  might  think  it  was  on  fire.  I  have  seen  Camden 
Lighthouse  many  a  time  when  the  sun  was  rising.  That's 
on  the  sea-coast,  forty  miles,  they  say." 

"  The  sea-coast  ?  Can  you  see  it  from  here  ?  I  wish  it 
were  morning  !'' 

Carradine  just  glanced  at  her  as  she  walked  by  his  side. 
"Home-sick!"  he  mentally  commented.  "No  wonder." 
But  he  was  mistaken. 

"  You're  not  getting  tired  of  us,  I  hope,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  no — it  is  quite  pleasant.  I  have  what  I  asked  for 
a  pretty  country  and  a  quiet  life.  But  it  seems,  since  yo'Z 
speak  of  the  sea,  as  if  I  were  nearer  home  than  I  thought. 
This  is  a  ruin,  it  seems." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  carelessly,  and  was  looking  over 
the  field  at  her  left  hand  as  they  walked  along. 

He  answered  with  hesitation  : 


THIRTY    MILES,    AND    MORE.  63 

"  That's  where  the  old  house  stood.  Thirty  years  ago, 
my  father  lived  there." 

"  No  one  since  his  time  ?" 

"  No  one.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  tear  down 
the  old  chimney  and  fire-place.  They've  crumbled,  as  you 
see." 

"  I  understand,"  she  answered  ;  and  they  continued  walk- 
ing up  the  road  together. 

In  all  his  life,  Carradine  had  heard  no  words  that  thrilled 
him  as  did  this  simple  expression  from  a  good  and  kindly 
woman.  Her  acknowledged  appreciation  of  the  feeling  she 
supposed  he  must  have  had  in  leaving  that  old  ruin  on  the 
ground  of  the  old  home,  seemed  to  place  them  for  an  instant 
on  a  level,  as  like  human  beings. 

Though  the  instant  after  he  felt  that  she  was  exalted  to 
heaven,  and  himself  abased  to  hell,  by  his  convictions  and 
his  consciousness  ;  still,  for  a  moment,  she  had  "  under- 
stood" him — and  she  had  acknowledged  that  she  did,  with  a 
frankness  that  won  his  instant  gratitude.  Why,  this  was 
compensation  enough  for  a  lifetime  of  Martindale  misunder- 
standing ! 

If  indeed  he,  Peter  Carradine,  could  deem  that  he  had 
been  misunderstood ! 

Often  his  recollections  had  burdened  him ;  he  had  felt 
them  to  be  a  disgrace.  He  had  longed  to  be  delivered  from 
them.  Had  felt  that  there  would  be  a  chance  of  happiness 
for  him  could  he  blot  out  the  past,  whose  shadow  fell  on 
all  the  present  time,  and  would  doubtless  stand  through 
every  future.  And  yet,  here  he  was,  revolving  in  his  mind 
the  story  of  this  past — thinking  to  repeat  the  story  that  had 
never  yet  had  utterance  from  his  lips,  to  Mercy  Fuller  ! 

Not  actuated  chiefly  by  the  thought  that  she  had  heard 
the  tale  from  others,  and  the  desire  to  give  her  the  best  ver- 
sion !  But  because — how  far  was  it  from  him  to  prate  of 
himself  !  How  unusual  to  allude  remotely  to  those  who 
were  gone.  What  is  it  that  makes  a  soul  in  its  conscious- 
ness of  a  near  presence  of  Divine  purity,  rejoice  even  in 
the  midst  of  self-abasement,  that  it  can  at  least  take  part 
with  the  Almighty  against  itself  without  any  treachery,  but 
with  truest  loyalty  to  that  self.  It  was  precisely  the  same 
impulse  that  held  him  now  in  the  posture  of  one  who  volun- 
tarily seeks  a  confessional. 


64  PETER    CARRADINE. 

"  You  think  you  understand  me,"  said  he,  in  answer  to 
that  simple  assurance  of  hers.  "  Do  you  ? — are  you  sure  ?" 

"  I  remember  a  place,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am  weak  enough 
to  think  I  could  not  endure  to  know  was  removed  from  the 
face  of  the  earth.  And  yet,  of  course,  I  could  endure  to 
know  it,  and  I  have  no  assurance  that  there  is  a  trace  of  it 
still  left.  It  cannot  be  destroyed  as  long  as  I  can  remember 
a iy thing.  And  age,  it  is  said,  remembers  more  and  more 
distinctly,  all  that  belonged  to  youth." 

"  If  that  is  so,"  he  said,   "  I  shall  fear  to  g"row  old." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  find,  when  the  time  comes,  that  you 
had  little  cause  to  fear." 

He  smiled  grimly,  that  she  should  attempt  to  soothe  him  ; 
and  answered  : 

"  I  can't  look  back  to  any  time  so  pleasant  that  I  should 
like  to  be  visited  by  its  ghost.  You  might  guess  that." 
Here  he  paused,  resuming  in  a  changed  voice,  "It  is  from 
this  point  you  can  see  so  far.  But  it  is  too  late  to-night. 
Just  after  sunset,  or  early  in  the  morning,  is  the  best  time. 
You  can  hardly  see  beyond  Elder  Green's  to-night." 

"  I  ought  to  be  there  this  moment ;  and  I  must  go  at 
once,"  said  Mercy. 

But  as,  returning,  they  passed  the  burial-ground,  both 
walked  slowly,  while  Carradine  told  of  the  changes  in  the 
landscape  since  he  could  remember.  Then  he  pointed  out 
to  her  the  several  clearings,  their  progress,  and  their  histo- 
ry, for  she  seemed  interested  in  the  relation  ;  of  the  for- 
tunes of  the  neighborhood  he  spoke — and  last  of  all  of  Peter 
Carradine. 

He  was  an  amusing  as  well  as  a  veracious  chronicler.  Not 
more  conspicuously  does  the  lion  stand  in  the  sheep  pasture 
than  Carradine  stood  in  the  neighborhood  ;  he  was  that  ca- 
pable in  the  comparison. 

He  could  well  afford  in  this  speaking  to  a  general  lenience 
in  judgment — and  it  made  an  impression  on  his  listener  that 
he  passed  so  mild  a  sentence.  That  he  was  considerate, 
that  he  was  just,  that  he  restrained  now  his  natural  impetu- 
osity of  speech,  and  was  mindful,  in  making  up  his  esti- 
mates, of  facts  which  those  he  judged  would  hardly  suppose 
could  find  place  in  his  computation.  He  was  in  a  beautiful 
mood.  And  when  such  a  man  is  subdued  to  mildness  of 
feeling,  as  well  as  of  speech,  there  is  occasion  for  observers 


THIRTY   MILES,    AND   MORE:  65 

to  draw  near  and  listen  with  respect,  for  it  is  a  great  hour 
in  his  experience.  Who  can  tell  what  issue  it  may  have  ? 
For  his  audience,  Carradine  could  not  have  desired  a  hotter 
than  this  present.  Irresistibly,  it  seemed,  she  impelled 
him  to  speech.  He  spoke  to  her  of  matters  which  had  never 
before  escaped  his  secret  mind.  The  remembrance  and  re- 
cital stirred  him,  strong  man  that  he  was,  as  a  storm  stirs 
the  oak's  great  branches  and  tears  away  its  crown. 

He  told  her  of  his  mother  ;  of  her  pinched,  starved  latter 
years — of  her  face  as  for  the  last  time  it  appeared  before 
him  !  Of  her  life  of  hardship,  and  privation.  How  the  re- 
collection of  that  dreadful  experience  had  power  in  her 
death  ;  how  it  had  changed  his  life  ;  how  he  had  sought, 
from  that  day  of  bereavement,  no  consolation,  no  excuse,  but 
had  said  I  am  a  man,  and  resolved  on  doing  a  man's  work. 
He  said  he  had  another  life  than  that  his  neighbors  gave 
him  credit  for.  He  wondered  that  they  could  suppose  a 
man  would  turn  from  wild  ways  to  those  of  honesty,  sobrie- 
ty and  labor,  unless  the  heart  in  him  was  changed. 

To  nobody  but  Miss  Fuller  had  he  ever  acknowledged 
what  vows  he  had  made,  and  how  hard  they  were  to  keep. 
But  there  were  witnesses  he  would  dare  to  call  on  in  his  last 
moments,  who  must  testify  that  he  had  not  merely  become 
a  changed  man  for  the  sake  of  profit.  It  was  from  his 
mother's  death-bed  that  he  had  turned  to  a  new  life.  He 
had  been  his  own  worst  enemy.  But  he  had  fought  his  way 
clear  of  the  past,  seeming  to  be  cheered  on  by  all  the  dead  ; 
from  beyond  the  grave  their  voices  had  encouraged  him.  No 
living  voices  said,  "  Bless  you  !"  "  Go  on  !" 

He  stood  now,  he  said,  a  freer  man  than  he  had  ever 
hoped  to  be.  He  had  fought  a  fight  such  as  he  did  not  be- 
lieve was  common  to  men.  And  he  had  been  victorious. 
Yes,  on  the  whole,  victorious. 

Could  Miss  Fuller  doubt  this  when  she  saw  how  these 
memories  moved  him? 

Brief  was  the  story,  simply  told.  But  its  eloquence, 
pathos  and  power,  moved  her  to  pity  even  beyond  her  know- 
ledge. She  stooped  ready  to  justify  the  man  who  could 
speak  thus  of  fortunes  such  as  his  had  been. 

True  deference  toward  woman,  tenderness  toward  child- 
hood, horror  of  wrong-doing,  and  manly  scorn  of  oppression 
and  baseness,  came  out  in  this  wonderful  utterance.  For  it 


66  PETER    CARRADINE. 

was  wonderful !  Deductions  might  have  been  drawn  from 
his  speech  which  would  have  surprised  him  ;  but  he  would 
have  been  certain  to  abide  by  it.  And  withal  there  was  re- 
vealed a  sense  of  justice,  a  desire  to  vindicate  himself,  and 
yet  not  to  deceive  the  woman  to  whom  he  spoke,  that  could 
not  fail  to  win  his  listener's  interest.  The  satisfaction  with 
which  Carradine  yielded  to  his  impulse  in  this  speaking 
was  significant.  Hitherto  the  past  was  as  a  haunted  cham- 
ber, whose  doors  were  locked  and  barred.  He  might  pass 
them  alone,  but  not  without  a  shudder — because  of  his  re- 
collections, not  chiefly  from  fear  of  exposure.  Voluntarily, 
he  had  deemed,  he  could  never  open  those  doors  that  others 
•might  enter  to  inspect  what  was  therein  hidden.  But  it  had 
come  to  pass  that  he  feared  the  exaggeration  of  suspicion  and 
the  reports  of  the  neighborhood,  much  more  than  the  expo- 
sure of  reality.  And  here  he  was  speaking  of  these  things 
to  the  purest,  wisest,  loveliest  woman  he  had  ever  seen  !  He 
found  comfort  in  the  thought  that,  with  sympathy,  even  with 
pity,  Miss  Fuller  would  learn  of  a  youth  that  must  be  with- 
out one  ray  of  beauty,  as  she  inspected  it.  He  seemed  to 
have  discovered  that,  beautiful  though  she  might  be,  and 
was,  to  his  sight,  such  a  story  as  he  told  would  have  a  dif- 
ferent meaning  to  her  than  other^.  She  would  not  be  le- 
nient and  charitable  because  that  was  her  duty,  but  because 
she  would  see  a  deeper  necessity  than  the  constraint  of  duty 
leading  her  to  judge  his  past  and  present,  in  a  way  beyond 
the  power  of  Martindale. 

While  he  walked  with  her  down  the  road,  even  to  the 
poplars  surrounding  the  brown  farm-house,  their  talk  was  of 
matters  immediately  connected  with  the  facts  he  had  re- 
lated. 

When  they  separated,  it  was  not  to  forget  this  confidence. 
Neither  to  regret  it.  Mercy  said  to  herself,  "  The  man  is 
better  than  he  seems — but  a  very  remarkable  person.  I 
wonder  how  much  of  his  strangeness  comes  out  of  the  fact 
that  people  seem  to  be  afraid  of  him."  Then  she  dismissed 
that  thought,  and  recalled  another,  brought  up  so  forcibly 
when  he  spoke  of  the  Camden  light-house,  forty  miles  away. 
By  the  sea  that  light-house  stood — for  mariners  were  its 
beacons.  She  seemed  to  hear  the  roar  of  the  great  flood, 
the  rushing  of  the  breakers,  and  she  was  lifted  aloft  by  a 
memory  that  bore  her  to  and  fro,  till  her  thoughts  kept  time 


THIRTY    MILES,    AND    MORE.  67 

to  the  great  anthem  of  the  deep.  So,  in  a  lofty  mood 
that  would  have  become  an  entrance  into  majestic  pres- 
ence, she  ascended  the  steps  that  led  to  Calvin  Green's 
front  door. 

Carradine  sat  in  his  corner  of  the  piazza  that  night  and 
smoked  to  a  much  later  hour  than  usual, 

Johnson  and  his  wife  sat  on  their  side  of  the  house  ex- 
pecting that  he  would  come,  according  to  his  custom,  to  talk 
over  to-morrow's  work.  But  he  was  not  thinking  of  to-mor- 
row's work.  And  he  had  forgotten  Johnson  and  his  wife. 
Even  the  voice  of  Harry  did  not  allure  him,  though  now  and 
then  he  heard  the  child  repeating  his  evening  hymn.  And 
neither  was  he  disturbed  when  he  heard  the  little  fellow 
rounding  the  corner  of  the  piazza  and  hurrying  towards  him. 
Still  the  boy  approached  quite  to  his  side  before  he  seemed 
to  be  aware  of  his  coming,  and  even  said,  "  Good  night,  Un- 
cle Carradine,"  ere  the  piercing  eyes  turned  on  him. 

"  Good  night,  my  lad,"  said  Peter  ;  but  now  he  detained 
the  boy,  who  would  have  run  off,  in  obedience  to  his  moth- 
er's injunction — he  was  not  to  stay  and  trouble  Mr.  Carra- 
dine. 

"  I  heard  you  reciting  some  pretty  verses.  Are  you 
asleep,  Harry  1" 

"  No,  sir,  wide  awake  ;"  and  the  child  opened  his  eyes  to 
show  how  very  wide  awake  he  was. 

"  Let  me  hear  the  verses  then."  He  put  off  the  boy  a  pace 
from  him;  forthwith  Harry  straightened  himself  and  recit- 
ed promptly,  for  he  had  learned  one  thing  well — never  to 
contradict  or  deny  Mr.  Carradine. 

"  Well  done  !"  said  Peter,  in  the  end.  "  Miss  Fuller  will 
make  something  of  you  yet." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  and  his  face  brightened  with 
pleasure  because  of  the  novel  praise.  Then  came  his  moth- 
er's voice  : 

"  Harry  I  Harry  !  What  did. I  tell  you,  sir  ?" 

"  One  minute.  There — kiss  me,  Harry,"  said  Carradine 
quickly.  He  stretched  out  his  great  arms,  drew  the  boy 
towards  him,  kissed  him,  and  let  him  go. 

It  was  an  act  Harry  Johnson  would  remember  through  a 
hundred  years.  It  had  never  occurred  before,  might  never 
occur  again.  But  when  Harry  Johnson  should  become  a 


68  PETER   CARRADINE. 

man,  and  must  needs  judge  the  character  of  Carradine,  that 
kiss  would  have  weight  in  the  evidence. 

Surely  it  was  significant  that  the  man's  first  kiss — a  vol- 
untary kiss,  conferred  as  a  king's  amnesty,  should  have  fall- 
en, such  a  night,  into  possession  of  a  child  ! 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  69 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    ELDEK'S     HOUSE 


THEY  were  looking  for  Mercy  Fuller's  arrival  at  Calvin 
Green's. 

There  was  the  Elder's  little  and  lean  self,  whose  feeble 
eyes  and  scanty  hair,  and  obsequious  nose,  were  libels,  eve- 
ry one,  on  the  timid  man,  who  was  as  good,  in  fact,  as  a 
timid  man  can  be.  A  hard-working,  honest  farmer,  with  a 
good  deal  more  heart  than  brain,  and  conscience  sufficiently 
intelligent  to  keep  him  tolerably  miserable  his  life  long. 
Nothing  but  death  could  deliver  Elder  Green  from  the 
bondage  he  was  in.  Oh  !  for  such  a  man,  what  a  wonder 
in  the  ultimate  revelation  of  the  glorious  liberty  of  the  chil- 
dren of  God  ! 

Calvin  loved,  with  a  worshipping  fondness,  his  daughter 
Sarah.  She  was  his  only  child — the  most  beautiful  of  wo- 
man-kind ;  and  probably  the  best.  That  he  had  loved  her 
blindly  and  unwisely  from  the  outset  I  need  not  be  harsh 
enough  to  say.  What  he  and  the  rest  of  them  had  helped 
Sally  to  become,  was  of  itself  a  sufficient  testimony.  If  there 
was  any  one  in  this  world  to  be  satisfied  and  pleased  at  all 
cost  and  hazard,  it  was  Sally  Green.  If  folly,  and  ingrati- 
tude, and  selfishness,  and  vanity,  ever  had  the  power  to 
throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  tenderness,  and  generosity,  and 
love,  they  conferred  it  on  Sally  Green,  and  she  used  it,  as 
perhaps  one  girl  out  of  a  million  would  refuse  to  do,  under 
the  same  circumstances. 

There  was  Esther  Green,  the  Elder's  mother,  whose  brain 
was  larger  than  her  heart — and  it  was  she  who  had  given 
her  good-tempered  son  his  unfortunate  bias,  and  fostered  it 
by  all  subsequent  education.  He  held  his  mother  in  great 
reverence,  and  was  grateful  to  her  for  her  work  in  him. 


70  PETER   CARRADINE. 

Grateful  too  for  precisely  that  which  discredited  her  ability 
to  do  the  thing  she  had  attempted.  Let  not  the  cedar-tree 
boast  loudly  of  the  power  that  has  pruned  and  trimmed  it  to 
the  stature  of  a  shrub.  Never  shall  the  free  winds  of  hea- 
ven shout  for  the  quickening  answer  of  the  mighty  limbs  ! 
Never  shall  cattle  gather  under  the  incompetent  shade  ! 
Never  shall  the  tired  traveller  look  forward  to  it,  on  his 
hot  and  dusty  journey,  for  the  rest  of  noon  !  Nor  the  birds 
sing,  where  might  have  waved  the  giant  cedar  branches  ! 

Oh,  Esther  !  a  little  truer  sight  would  show  you  that,  in- 
stead of  priding  yourself  on  Calvin  Green,  you  had  better 
call  on  rocks  and  mountains  to  fall  and  hide  you  from  the 
vengeance  of  the  world  you  have  cheated  of  a  full-grown 
man. 

Her  brain  was  larger  than  her  heart ;  and  neither  had 
been  trained  to  any  noble  proportions.  She  was  a  thin, 
erect,  proud  woman,  who  called  herself  a  Calvinist ;  but  the 
great  John  Calvin  must  marvel  much  to  hear  it ;  repudiat- 
ing, beyond  question,  with  some  terror  and  some  grief,  eve- 
ry sentiment  by  which  the  woman,  in  her  age,  linked  herself 
to  the  teaching  of  his  youth  ;  every  doctrine  by  which  her 
amazing  littleness  claimed  oneness  with  him.  Conforming 
her  starved  life  to  tier  perception  of  his  doctrine  in  the 
world's  present  age,  she  exhibited  in  herself  the  meaning  of 
one  Paul,  who  deprecated  any  advocacy  of  his  version  of 
truth,  proclaiming  that  Eternal  Truth  was  Christly,  in  all 
needful  demonstration. 

Esther  was  quite  old,  yet  her  vigor  manifested  none  of 
the  signs  of  age.  Her  hair  was  white — her  face  was  brown 
and  wrinkled — but  her  blue  eyes,  bright  and  cold  as  the 
winter  sky,  needed  no  aid  of  spectacles.  She  was  a  living 
chronicle,  and  she  had  as  proud  a  heart  as  could  well  beat 
within  such  a  compass.  She  was  proud  of  being  the  first 
settler  of  Martindale.  Yes,  her  family  was  the  very  oldest 
of  that  town.  Inestimable  distinction  !  There  were  mcu 
who  had  come  in  later,  and  who  had  grown  rich  faster — but, 
they  were  new  comers  ;  a  misfortune,  if  not  exactly  a  crime. 

In  chief,  she  was  proud  of  her  piety.  Proud  of  having 
endeavored  to  subdue  her  pride,  and  "neighbor"  with  her 
neighbors,  and  submit  to  the  necessities  of  a  new  country, 
for  she  was  a  town-bred  girl  herself.  She  never  gossipped 
with  these  neighbors,  and  she  was  proud  of  that.  The  El- 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  71 

der's  first  wife,  Sally's  mother,  was  a  city  girl,  according  to 
Esther's  counsel,  and  she  was  proud  of  that.  Sally  had 
been  at  school  in  town  two  years,  and  was  "  accomplished," 
besides  very  pretty  ;  incredibly  proud  of  these  facts  was 
poor  Esther.  And  I  am  afraid  to  tell  you  all  her  ambition 
for  dear  Sally.  The  impression  Esther  made  was  deep  and 
peculiar  ;  one  felt  quite  sure  she  must  have  been  born  so — 
if  not  really  in  the  neat  white  cap,  and  the  white  necker- 
chief, and  old  and  rigid,  yet  in  complete  possession  of  the 
infantile  correspondents  to  these  things.  Such  a  woman 
never  comes  by  chance.  She  is  born,  as  they  say  poets  are; 
and  as  are  all  persons  who  prove  in  the  end  to  be  anything 
in  particular.  A  fact  for  dolts  to  laugh  at,  and  the  whole 
world  to  weep  over  ;  according  to  the  last  clause  of  the  sec- 
ond commandment,  twentieth  chapter  of  Exodus. 

Then,  there  was  Huldah  Green,  the  Elder's  second  wife, 
a  comely,  kindly  woman  ;  a  trifle  deaf,  and  chief  illustrator 
of  the  Abrahamic  hospitality.  You  could  never  find  her 
amiss ;  she  would  smile  on  you  across  a  wash-tub,  with  an 
apology  that  "  washing  days  would  come,  and  she  thought 
she  would  help  Nancy,"  which  you  were  by  no  means  to 
construe  into  a  hint  that  your  presence  was  unwelcome,  or 
your  visit  ill-timed.  . 

Such  a  woman  as  looked  at  work  as  if  it  were  a  pastime. 
And  some  imbecile  persons  were  in  the  Ijabit  of  averring 
that  she  did  thus  regard  it !  There  is  no  end  to  the  credu- 
lousness  of  self-love.  Spirit  no  doubt  can  act  like  magic 
upon  matter.  Its  willingness  works  wonders  though  the 
flesh  be  weak.  But  the  probability  in  regard  to  Huldah 
Green  was,  that  back  and  limbs  grew  weary  sometimes, 
through  obedience  to  the  kindly  impulse  of  the  heart. 

But  as  yet  there  was  no  noticeable  faltering  of  the  quick 
light  step — in  the  face  no  indicated  impatience  of  languor, 
or  sadness  of  pain,  and  bright  her  eyes  were  as  in  youth. 

Huldah  was  kind  to  Sally  Green  with  an  unchanging  ten- 
derness. The  feeling  with  which  she  took  the  motherless 
young  child  in  her  arms  when  first  she  came  into  the  Elder's 
house;  the  wife  of  Calvin  Green  had  never  under  any  provo- 
cation failed  her. 

She  lived  in  peace  with  her  exacting  mother-in-law. 

She  never  troubled  herself  about  doctrines. 

But  she  enjoyed  a  good  sermon,  how  much  !      If  it   was 


72  PETER   CARRADINE. 

preached  out  of  one  of  St.  John's  epistles,  those  Love  Let- 
ters to  the  Ages,  all  the  better. 

I  think  of  her  by  some  strange  mischance  engaged  in  the- 
ological disputes  !  Disastrously  prevented  in  the  boundless 
charity  with  which  it  was  her  nature  to  meet  every  threat- 
ening aspect — hindered  in  that  generous  impulse  that  con- 
strained her  to  take  herself  out  of  every  mortal's  way — 
compelled  to  breathe  the  air  oppressive  and  impure,  which 
is  the  breath  of  life  to  worldlings.  Such  spirits  have  ere 
now  been  so  compelled.  There  have  been  many  martyrs 
during  these  six  thousand  years. 

Here,  in  Martindale,  the  Elder's  wife — Sally's  mother — 
Esther's  daughter,  she  had  so  much  to  think  of  that  pleased 
hor — to  do,  that  interested  her !  She  turned  her  deafness 
to  such  good  account — she  smiled  her  way  from  shadowy 
paths  into  the  sunshine  with  such  a  hearty  good  will — you 
could  not  think  her  sadly  out  of  place. 

How  many  such  women,  brave  as  veterans,  all  underrat- 
ed, beautiful  as  sunflowers,  and  as  constant  to  the  sun,  you 
and  I  have  seen  !  How  they  blossom  by  the  roadside,  in 
spite  of  dust  and  storm  !  God  shields  all  their  exposure, 
and  makes  their  memory  as  a  rock  in  a  dry  and  thirsty 
land  !  Love,  at  last,  shall  lave  the  feet  that  never  wearied 
running  on  love's  errands. 

And  a  great  v^ion  shall  at  length  arrest  the  eyes  so  rest- 
less in  their  watchful  care. 

There  was  already  a  guest  in  the  house  of  Elder  Green. 
Mr.  Collamer,  the  preacher  promised  for  to-morrow's  ser- 
vice, had  arrived. 

His  satchel  had  been  carried  into  the  principal  guest- 
chamber  of  the  house — and  his  person  sat  composedly  in  the 
best  parlor,  that  formidable  room  from  whose  small  windows 
the  heavy-boarded  blinds  were  now  thrown  open  for  the  ad- 
mission of  rare  daylight  and  sweet  air. 

The  large  room  opposite  the  parlor,  across  the  entry,  an- 
swered all  ordinary  family  or  hospitable  purposes.  No  one 
could  dream  of  questioning  whether  the  household  felt  more 
at  ease  in  one  room  than  the  other.  There  is  something 
in  this  showy  furniture,  the  gay  carpet,  the  polished  mahog- 
any, the  look  and  smell  of  newness,  that  indicates  an  abrupt 
change  in  the  family  drift;  incongruous  the  manifestations 
of  such  change  must  be  ;  the  present  seems  to  have  grown 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  73 

with  a  not  quite  graceful  naturalness  out  of  the  past.  Sally, 
of  all  Martindale,  harmonizes  best  with  the  modern  style  of 
the  new  furniture,  but  Sally  is  in  direct  antagonism  towards 
the  state  of  things  among  which  she  was  her  being. 

It  is  curious  to  see  how  a  man  like  Elder  Green  can  stand 
affected  by  such  signs  and  shows.  He  had  an  interest  in 
this  fine  upholstery,  and  the  skillful  work  from  cabinet  ware- 
houses. These  things  had  cost  him  money,  they  represent 
their  value — it  was  not  the  unfitness  of  the  low  ceilings  and 
the  long  narrow  room  for  the  reception  of  fine  furniture  that 
might  have  decorated  any  gorgeous  steamer's  magnificent  sa- 
loon, but  another  kind  of  unfitness  that  troubled  him  when 
he  stood  in  the  doorway  and  looked  around  on  the  completed 
arrangements.  He  was  only  Calvin  Green,  and  pine  furn- 
iture, grained  neatly,  walls  whitewashed,  floor  covered  with 
one  of  industrious  Huldah's  nice  rag  carpets,  served  his  pur- 
pose to  all  conceivable  intents. 

And  yet,  when  he  became  accustomed  to  the  new  parlor 
gear,  recognized  that  he  could  well  afford  the  outlay,  saw 
Sally's  satisfaction,  heard  the  neighbors'  wondering  admira- 
tion, the  strange  shyness  that  he  felt  on  account  of  his  new 
splendors  passed  away  ;  above  all,  when  his  mother  took  to 
knitting  tidies  for  the  arm-chairs,  and  the  sofa,  with  a  serious 
proud  satisfaction,  and  Sally  occupied  herself  with  leather- 
work  and  wax  flowers,  for  the  "  mantel-tree-piece  "  and  the 
walls  of  that  best  room,  he  was  a  kindly  man,  and  he  had  a 
little  pride — he  could  not  find  it  in  him  to  mar  the  women's 
satisfaction. 

In  this  room  sat  Mr.  Collamer.  He  was  quite  a  young 
man,  having  much  more  learning  and  enthusiasm  than  expe- 
rience ;  and  he  had  entered  the  service  of  his  choice  with  a 
spirit  that  gave  assurance  of  his  power  to  prove  himself. 
Though  fearless  (not  insolent)  in  speech,  when  not  called 
out  by  occasion  or  real  interest  in  a  topic,  he  had  the  appear- 
ance of  timidity  ;  his  taste  might  have  made  of  him  a  student, 
not  a  public  speaker  ;  but  his  convictions  had  proved  stronger 
than  his  apparent  inclination,  and  in  almost  every  struggle 
they  had  carried  their  point.  Rarely  is  so  much  gentleness 
of  manner  and  of  heart  united  with  a  spirit  so  valiant  and  de- 
termined. Since  he  came  from  his  retirement  to  active 
life  among  working-men,  he  had  continually  surprised  him- 
self. Long  would  he  continue  to  surprise  himself. 
4 


74  PETER    CARRADINE. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  personal  appearance  so  striking 
as  to  command  immediate  attention.  His  slight  figure  was 
well  and  strongly  fashioned ;  no  passing  breeze,  no  day's 
toil  would  demolish  him.  If  the  signs  were  to  be  credited, 
long  life  was  before  him.  His  countenance  was  beautiful  by 
virtue  of  expression — paled  just  now  by  over-work,  and  one 
would  not  at  a  glance  suspect,  much  less  discern,  the  fiery 
glow  of  the  heart  within.  His  blue  eyes  and  light  hair 
completed  the  veiling,  for,  in  fact,  here  was  a  spirit  in  dis- 
guise. Ordinary  people,  to  whom  he  came  so  quietly,  how 
should  they  suspect  the  power,  or  anticipate  the  flashing  of 
those  eyes,  or  the  thunder  of  that  voice,  in  the  great  storm- 
gathering  of  feeling,  and  the  storm-break  of  truth  ? 

In  this  room,  with  him,  at  twilight,  Mercy  Fuller  sat  and 
talked,  with  Sally  for  an  auditor,  while  Saturday  night's 
work  on  a  farm  demanded  busy  hands  and  feet  of  other 
members  of  the  family. 

To  the  great  relief  of  Huldah,  Mrs.  Green,  the  visitors 
were  thus  disposed  of.  As  yet,  she  had  been  merely  able 
to  pay  her  welcoming  respects  to  the  school-teacher — how 
sincere  the  welcome  was  her  meditative  comment,  as  she 
walked  about  from  cellar  to  bedroom,  from  dairy  to  kitchen, 
overlooking  all  things,  proved. 

"  Randy  said  she  had  a  pleasant  face,  and  Randy's  right 
about  it.  I'll  give  her  of  the  best — but  she's  not  your  kind 
that  complains,  and  find  nothing  good  enough,  do  your  best 
and  die  of  trying.  I  don't  hear  nought  of  her  but  good,  and 
sure  her  face  don't  belie  it.  I'll  set  as  good  before  her  as  I 
would  to  the  President.  If  she'll  only  take  to  grandma,  and 
Sally  !  Sally,  where's  your  grandma  ?" 

"  In  the  parlor.  I  came  to  find  you.  Everything  is  done 
twice  Over.  Do  come  in  !"  said  Sally,  with  unusual  kindli- 
ness, as,  looking  about  the  kitchen,  (tor  she  thought  as  she 
sat  in  the  parlor  that  she  heard  the  voice  of  Oliver  Savage,) 
her  eyes  fell  on  her  stepmother's  anxious,  heated  face. 

"  It's  Saturday  night,  you  know,"  Huldah  answered,  feel 
ing  that  a  little  apology  was  due  for  occupying  herself  with 
what  must  be  done,  because  secretly  she  felt  happy  to  es 
cape  from  the  parlor  constraint  into  the  free'dom  of  the 
kitchen.  "  It's  Saturday  night,  and  things  must  be  done 
up  strong,  or  they'll  come  undone  ere  Monday." 

"  They  couldn't  if  they  tried,  with  you  to  oversee.  Come 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  75 

now,  mother,  you'll  like  Mr.  Collamer."  In  the  mere  kind- 
liness of  Sally's  voice  was  a  mightily  soft  persuasion  to  the 
ear  of  Huldah  Green,  for  Sally,  her  step-child,  was  not  al- 
ways considerate — nor  generally  mindful  of  another's  pleas- 
ure ;  was  not  even  now — but  Huldah,  happily,  was  not  given 
to  any  peace-destroying  analytic  mental  operations. 

"  How  is  it  with  the  teacher,  Sally  1"  she  asked,  hesitat- 
i  ig  still  to  leave  her  scene  of  action. 

"  Come  and  see." 

"  Oh,  you  won't  say  ;  but  she  looks  pleasant — good  and 
kind — harmless  like,  I  think." 

"  But  come  and  see — such  a  remarkable  gathering,  it's 
worth  your  while,"  urged  Sally,  standing  in  the  kitchen 
door,  and  looking  out  into  the  yard,  that  was  filling  fast 
with  shadows. 

Sally  carried  her  point — Huldah  smoothed  her  front  hair, 
brushed  off  the  imaginary  dust  from  her  person,  and  then 
stepped  lightly  towards  the  entry  through  which,  Sally  fol- 
lowing, they  passed  to  the  parlor. 

The  gathering  in  the  parlor,  all  assembled,  was,  in  fact, 
"  remarkable."  Man  and  woman,  age  and  youth,  purse-pride 
and  vanity,  intolerance,  recklessness,  charity,  religious  en- 
thusiasm, had  expression  within  those  walls  ;  had  full-blood- 
ed life  there, 

Elder  Green  sat  on  one  corner  of  the  sofa,  whereon  Mr. 
Collamer  was  also  seated.  Conspicuous,  and  separated  from 
the  remainder  of  the  company  by  the  arms  of  the  easy  chair, 
whose  covering  was  of  purple  velvet,  sat  the  Elder's  moth- 
er ;  by  the  table  that  stood  under  the  looking-glass,  between 
the  two  front  windows,  sat  Mercy  Fuller,  busy  with  some 
trifling  thread-work  that  occupied  her  fingers  merely.  Sally 
sat  down  near  the  door,  instead  of  following  her  mother  to 
the  table,  least  at  ease,  perhaps,  of  any  person  of  the  group, 
but  not  on  account  of  the  unusual  company.  Here,  on  this 
occasion  was  an  unmarked  failure  on  the  part  of  Sally  Green 
to  occupy  the  place  that  seemed  naturally  hers.  A  failure 
tnat  was  not  made  significant  to  any  one,  nor  clearly  to  her- 
self. It  would  not  have  become  her,  in  the  presence  of  eld- 
ers, to  take  upon  herself  the  conduct  of  the  evening's  con- 
versation, but  a  woman  so  well-dressed,  with  whose  educa- 
tion so  much  pains  had  been  taken,  in  whose  behalf  at  least 
no  expense  had  been  spared,  ought  not  to  have  sat  there  by 


76  PETER   CARRADINE. 

the  door,  so  desirous  to  avoid  responsibility  as  even  to  long 
for  that  voice  and  step  in  the  kitchen,  which,  on  the  pre- 
tence of  summoning  her  mother,  she  went  out  just  now  to 
greet.  But  don't  think  it  was  her  fine  surroundings  that 
embarrassed  Sally,  or  a  sense  of  incompetence  to  take  part 
in  such  conversation  as  passed  an  hour  ago  between  the  min- 
ister and  school  teacher  ;  at  which  time  she  revised  a  little 
— on  compulsion,  and  unwillingly — her  opinion  of  Miss  Ful- 
ler, and  determined  henceforth  to  avoid  her.  Prosperity  in 
temporal  things — ambition  to  eclipse  her  neighbors,  to  be 
looked  up  to  by  them,  to  be  courted  by  them,  for  personal 
beauty  and  the  show  of  perishable  circumstance,  for  the  po- 
sition of  money  and  family — this  was  Sally  Green.  What 
was  there  within  or  without  her  that  could  draw  this  nature 
forth  to  any  exalted  aspiration  !  What  is  it  that  sustains  any 
such  nature  in  the  world?  Accident.  The  good  it  craves 
for,  and  aims  at,  is  beneath  it,  and  unhindered  in  obtaining 
that,  it  will  descend  for  the  possession.  This  is  the  way 
they  take  to  reach  "  the  Blessed  Life." 

When  Huldah  came  into  the  parlor,  Elder  Green  had  just 
asked  Mercy  about  her  long  walk  that  afternoon ;  she  told 
him  the  direction  she  had  taken,  and  now  he  remarked  : 

"  Past  the  old  Carradine  place  then.  Yes,  it  is  very 
sightly  up  there.  Then  you  saw  the  ruins." 

The  next  moment  he  had  occasion  to  repent  that  suggest- 
ion, for  his  mother  never  lost  occasion  to  rigorously,  and,  as 
she  deemed,  religiously  condemn  the  Carradine  history — 
quite  the  most  profane  within  her  knowledge.  Carradine 
was  the  name  by  which,  as  a  social  being,  Esther  hated  sin, 
and  the  show  of  sin's  prosperity.  Carradine  was  the  token 
by  which  she  knew  that  the  feet  of  the  unrighteous  were  set 
in  slippery  places.  The  theme  on  which  she  mused  un- 
til the  fire  of — shall  I  call  it  envy  ? — burned.  Envy  and 
malice,  and  uncharitableness,  are  harsh  words,  and  one  feels 
compunction  using  them  in.  reference  to  a  woman,  above  all 
an  old  woman — and  above  everthing  a  "  professor,"  who  had 
read  her  Bible  so  much  and  prayed  night  and  morning  for 
so  many  years. 

She  spoke  up  now  with  the  promptness  of  one  who  is  pre- 
pared. 

"  The  old  ruins  must  be  gone  by  this  time,  Elder.  It 
was  long  ago  that  I  saw  only  the  stump  of  the  chimney  left. 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  77 

Never  a  house  dropped  out  of  sight  so  sudden  as  that  one. 
Never  vengeance  made  a  cleaner  work." 

"There  are  a  few  traces  left — not  many,"  said  Mercy,  now 
curious  to  hear  the  traditions  in  regard  to  the  Carradine 
fortunes.  His  own  words,  and  his  attitude  and  aspect  as  a 
dweller  in  the  town,  excited  her  curiosity.  The  tone  of 
Esther's  words  increased  it. 

"  I've  often  wondered  at  the  man  for  leaving  sign  or  to- 
ken on  the  ground.  It  wasn't  a  home  that  ought  to  stand, 
and  it  couldn't  stand.  But  that's  his  pride.  He'd  never 
cover  up  the  rubbish,  somebody  might  think  he  wanted  to 
put  out  of  mind  what  the  town  of  Martindale  never  could 
forget.  When  I  was  young,  it  was  reckoned  a  good  deal  of 
a  house.  Old  Mr.  Carradine  brought  more  money  with  him 
to  this  country  than  any  other  settler  that  purchased  of  my 
husband."  Here  Esther  paused,  from  her  manner  of  speak- 
ing you  might  almost  have  thought  that  she  saw  no  differ- 
ence between  the  Maker  and  seller  of  land. 

"  But  that  was  the  prime  difficulty,"  explained  her  son, 
the  Elder  ;  "he  had  more  money  than  faculty  to  deal  with 
a  new  country.  So  it  was  all  waste  and  want." 

"  Waste  and  want  and  sin.  You  can  see  it  all  when  you 
look  at  Peter  Carradine — such  a  dreadful  man.  There 
was  never  another  like  him." 

"  But  a  quite  successful  farmer,  is  he  not  ?"  asked 
Mercy. 

Sally  wished  for  Randy  to  stand  by  and  hear  this  conver- 
sation. She  smiled  to  think  of  Carradine's  prosperity  as 
here  adverted  to,  in  the  hearing  of  grandma,  Esther  Green. 

Mr.  Collamer  turned  and  looked  at  Mercy  when  she 
spoke.  A  smile  seemed  to  be  somewhere  hidden  in  his 
face,  but  it  may  have  been  a  mere  beam  of  benevolent  plea- 
sure, excited  by  the  hope  that  possibly  there  was  some  re- 
deeming point  in  the  character  of  this  notable  man  of  Mar- 
tindale. 

Esther's  surpise  to  hear  a  stranger  even  associate  the 
words  prosperity  and  Carradine  was  great,  evidently — her 
cold  blue  eyes  expressed  it. 

'•  I  suppose,"  answered  the  Elder,  in  a  tone  that  did  him 
credit,  "  i  suppose  that  Mr.  Carradine  is  the  richest  man  in 
the  town  of  Martindale.  I  mean  for  a  working  man.  Of 


78  PETER   CARRADIXE. 

course  there's  Mr.  Martin.      But  we  don't  take  him  into 
account." 

"  My  son,"  said  Esther  Green,  in  a  sharp  and  pained  sur- 
prise, "  whoever  thinks  of  Peter  Carradine  as  a  rich  man." 

"  I  know,  mother.  Maybe  it's  wrong — but  folks  don't 
always  see  things  as  it's  right.  Carradine  is  active  and 
sharp,  a  good  deal  of  a  man  in  business.  It  isn't  anything 
beyond  that  the  most  of  folks  will  care  about.  He's  prosper- 
ous, as  you  said,  Miss  Fuller — you're  right.  He  owfls  a  deal 
of  land — and  he's  a  careful  farmer.  'Cause  he  put  himself 
to  it — and  he'd  carry  anything  he  tried  to  carry.  By-and-by, 
sir,  when  we  old  people  are  gone,  and  there's  a  new  set  in 
Martindale,  these  things  will  be  forgot.  It's  right  they 
should  be.  He's  a  sober  man,  and  honest  in  his  dealings — 
as  honest  as  a  man  like  him  can  be.  There's  no  cheat  about 
him.  And  money  goes  a  long  way.  If  that  man  was  to 
marry,  sir,  and  raise  up  children  to  his  name,  they'd  ride 
prosperously  over  all  this  region.  I  can't  speak  agin  light 
and  knowledge — he  isn't  the  the  kind  o'  man  that  it's  good 
for  me  to  be  with  ;  but  he's  prosperous.*' 

At  this  unwonted  speech,  delivered  with  a  spirit  that 
nothing  short  of  an  exacting  sense  of  duty  could  have  inspi- 
red, Elder  Green  sat  back  in  his  seat.  Through  the 
shadows,  Sally  Green  looked  at  Mercy  Fuller.  A  silence 
that  could  be  felt  was  upon  the  company  ;  the  Elder  seem- 
ed to  have  controlled  it,  as  sometimes,  on  larger  occasions, 
a  church  full  of  people,  apparently  silent,  becomes  sudden- 
ly electrified  by  the  speaker's  sentiment  or  thought.  Then 
the  feeling  of  silence  has  been  understood  ;  as  it  was  in  this 
dim  parlor,  at  the  present  speaking. 

Esther  Green's  voice  broke  the  charm. 

"  If  it  had  been  religion  that  brought  about  the  change  in 
him  ! — but  it  wasn't,  it  was  pride.  He  was  too  proud  to  be 
a  drunkard  and  a  vagabond." 

"  That  may  be  the  cleanliness  that's  next  to  godliness,  that 
pride,"  suggested  Mr.  Collamer. 

"  I  can  remember  when  he  lay  in  the  old  barn,  a  week  at 
a  time,  no  better  than  a — " 

"  He  did  drink  pretty  freely  in  those  days,"  said  her  son, 
speaking  hurriedly,  as  if  he  would  prevent  his  mother's  se- 
vere judgments.  "  He  was  quarrelsome,  too,  when  he  was 
in  liquor — better  tell  the  story,  and  make  an  end  of  it — un- 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  79 

til  he  had  taken  so  much  that  he  lost  his  wits  entirely,  he 
seemed  crazy-like.  It  wasn't  safe  to  be  with  him.  They 
led  a  dreadful  life  up  there  at  Carradine's,  I  do  suppose. 
I  have  brought  Peter  home  with  me,  many's  the  time,  when 
he  was  so  crazed  with  drink  it  wasn't  safe  to  leave  him  with 
those  that  would  be  ha'sh  on  him.  He  was  difficult  to  deal 
with  when  he  got  to  going — obstinate',  sir  ;  you  couldn't 
drive  him!  He  hain't  touched  a  drop  of  liquor  now  for 
years.  I  don't  suppose  he  could  be  persuaded  into  it.  He 
might  keep  a  tavern,  for  all  the  harm  'twould  do  him. 
After  his  brother  died,  it  was,  that  he  changed  so  entirely. 
And  he  was  very  kind  to  his  mother.  But  it  wasn't  for  long. 
After  the  two  little  boys  died,  she  was  carried  off.  He 
seems  like  a  hard  man,  Peter  does — but  it's  made,  half  of 
it."  [Well  done,  Calvin  Green  !]  "He  earned  his  first  twen- 
ty dollars  working  on  my  father's  farm.  Never  such  a  man 
in  the  county  for  work.  Land  was  for  sale  cheap — and  when 
he  took  it  into  his  head,  sir,  that  he  would  have  possessions, 
it  seemed  impossible  for  the  land  he  set  his  eyes  on  to  keep 
out  of  his  reach.  What  he  wanted,  that  he  got.  There's  no 
double-dealing  and  no  overreaching  to  him  either." 

"  But  what's  the  reason,  then,  that  everybody's  feared  of 
him?" 

"  There,  that's  it,"  said  the  Elder,  as  if  now  he  and  his 
mother  might  come  to  an  understanding  ;  "  he's  forbidding, 
proud,  he  don't  like  to  remember.  He's  afraid  that  others 
do  remember — and  he  wouldn't  have  a  body  think  he  cared, 
not  for  all  the  land  he  owns." 

"  Close  and  careful,  but  honest,  isn't  that  what  you  mean, 
Calvin  ?"  asked  his  wife. 

"  Just  so,  Huldah  ;"  by  the  tone  of  the  Elder's  voice  it 
seemed  as  if  he  would  bestow  a  look  of  full  approval  on  his 
wife.  Instead  of  that  he  looked  out  of  the  window. 

Mr.  Collamer  seemed  now  disposed  to  take  part  in  the 
conversation. 

"  If  I  understand,  Mr.  Carradine  is  what  we  call  a 
worldly  man.5' 

"  Just  so,  sir,"  replied  the  Elder. 

"  A  very  scoffing  man,"  said  Esther,  determined  that,  at 
all  hazards,  religion  should  be  honored,  and  perfectly  uncon- 
scious of  a  fear  that  her  hatred  to  sin  might  deteriorate  into 
hatred  of  the  sinner.  "  I  was  thinking  you  might  just  as 


80  PETER   CARRADINE. 

soon  look  for  our  gravelly  hill  to  be  converted  into  pasture 
land." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Huldah. 

"  Just !"  reiterated  the  old  woman  ;  "  or  into  a  garding." 

"  With  God  all  things  are  possible,  you  know,"  reminded 
the  minister  ;  "  and  it  is  the  great  glory  of  the  Gospel  that 
it  has  converted,  and  can  convert,  just  such  men." 

"  And  there  are  many  ways  to  heaven,"  Mercy  assured 
herself  with  tranquillity. 

"  I  never  saw  the  person  who  minded  me  so  often  of  the 
text,  '  Ephrim  is  jined  to  his  idols — let  him  alone."  " 

"  But  Divine  truth  is  sharper  than  a  two-edged  sword," 
argued  the  minister. 

As  if  by  common  consent,  the  theme  of  conversation  was 
now  changed. 

Sally,  unnoticed,  except  by  her  mother,  had  slipped  out  of 
the  room  while  Carradine  was  yet  under  discussion.  She 
was  certain  that  she  heard  footsteps  in  the  kitchen,  and  this 
time  was  not  mistaken  ;  young  Savage  was  just  going  out. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  and  he  stepped  back,  his  eyes  full  of 
greed's  worshipping  devotion  ;  his  face  all  smiling.  "  I  was 
just  going  to  give  it  up." 

"  I  thought  I  heard  somebody,"  she  answered.  "  There's 
company  in  the  parlor,  I  can't  stay  a  minute.  Did  you  want 
anything,  Oliver  ?" 

"No — No — "  how  could  he  be  so  audacious  as  to  want, 
or  be  conscious  of  a  want,  in  such  a  presence  !  He  seemed 
abashed  before  it,  and  only  stammered,  "  You'll  be  going  to 
the  preaching  to-morrow  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  must  be  there  too.  It  is  better  than  hanging 
about  the  tavern  on  Sunday,"  said  the  Elder's  daughter. 
"  Besides,  it  is  a  preacher  such  as  don't  come  to  Martindale 
every  day." 

"  I'd  go,"  said  he,  "for  one  thing.  I  don't  care  who 
preaches — I'll  sit  where  I  can  see  you." 

"  Yes — well — you  will  see  that  1  wear  a  veil  then,  a  thick 
green  veil.  So  you  will  be  obliged  to  attend  to  something 
besides  me,  you  silly  fellow." 

"  If  I  know  you  are  there,  you  may  wear  a  hundred  green 
veils.  You  know  I  could  see  through  ;em." 

It  made  no  difference  if  she  called  him  silly,  and  little,  and 
a  boy,  and  a  wicked  one.  He  knew  that  she  liked  to  hear 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  81 

him  praise   her  beauty  ;  and  ho  thought  that  the  pleasure 
was  excited  because  the  praise  came  from  him  ! 

"  Who  is  the  preacher,  though  ?"  he  asked,  anxious  to 
detain  her. 

"  Mr.  Collamer,  you  remember  ?  He  can  tell  you  some 
things  you  would  be  wise  to  believe.'5 

"  I  shall  ask  you  to  say  them  over  for  me  sometime,  and 
then  I  shall  be  sure  to  remember.  I  never  forgot  anything 
you  said  to  me  yet." 

"  A  precious  memory  you  must  have  to  hold  such  trash  ! 
If  I  have  ever  scolded  you,  you  may  remember  that — but 
for  the  rest,  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

She  stood  on  the  door-step,  just  above  him  ;  she  seemed 
to  tower  far  aloft,  beyond  his  reach  ;  he  put  up  his  hands  as 
if  he  thought  to  see  her  soaring  away,  and  would  prevent 
her — she  took  the  two  hands  in  hers,  and  repeated  slowly, 
enjoying  the  disturbance  she  occasioned,  as  a  spider  may 
the  torments  of  the  entangled  fly  : 

"  Don't  believe  one  word  of  it,  poor  Oliver." 

"  I'll  give  the  lie  to  everything  on  earth  first,"  he  an- 
swered passionately.  Then  she  answered  as  if  she  would 
soothe  him. 

"  There  !  there  !"  and  he  was  a  captive,  with  his  hands  in 
hers  ;  a  willing  captive  too.  For  one  moment  an  unuttera- 
ble hope  seemed  to  possess  him  ;  he  could  not  speak  and 
venture  all.  The  charm  was  too  quickly  broken  ;  she  drop- 
ped his  hands,  folded  her  own  together  with  a  calm  coolness 
that  fired  his  fears.  "  I  must  go  back.  They  will  all 
wonder." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  it's  always  they  !  Always 
some  one  besides  Oliver.  Well !  go  on  !" 

He  was  surprised,  however,  when  she  shut  the  kitchen 
door,  and,  without  speaking,  obeyed  him.  She  went  her 
way  lightly  laughing  ;  but  he  actually  brushed  two  or  three 
tears  with  a  rough  hand  from  his  cheeks,  as  he,  with  a  curse, 
went  his  way. 

If  the  preacher  was  disposed  to  preach  a  practical  ser- 
mon, he  had  furnished  for  him  sufficient  material.  Worldly 
ambition  was  a  fruitful  theme.  So  also  was  charity — love. 
And  if  he  had  need  of  illustrations,  they  were  at  hand,  and 
abundant.  No  need  to  ransack  the  ages. 

4* 


82  PETER   CAURADINE. 

He  had  already  stood  behind  the  school-house  desk,  and 
preached  to  this  people — and  he  remembered  the  faces  of  a 
few  of  those  gathered  at  that  time  before  him.  He  had  ob- 
served, with  the  though tfulness  of  a  man  who  understands 
that  time  and  opportunity  are  never  to  be  made  light  of  or 
wasted,  that  on  that  occasion  his  words  seemed  to  fall  not 
on  stony  ground — that  throughout  his  preaching  he  suc- 
ceeded in  holding  the  attention  of  his  audience.  Particular- 
ly he  remembered  the  young  girl  who  came  in  with  the  old 
man,  introduced  to  him  by  Elder  Green  as  father  Roy. 
This  girl,  Sally  Green  had  told  him,  wag  the  school-teacher 
of  Martindale  ;  but  within  the  fortnight  a  change  must  have 
taken  place,  for  here,  under  this  roof,  was  another  whom 
they  called  the  teacher. 

The  minister  asked  an  explanation  of  Sally  the  next  morn- 
ing, when  she  came  into  the  porch,  where  he  sat  reading, 
before  breakfast. 

She  came  out  to  take  an  observation  of  earth  and  sky,  not 
expecting  to  find  him  there,  but  the  discovery  was  not  dis- 
pleasing ;  and  when  he  spoke  she  sat  down  on  the  bench 
opposite  him  ;  the  porch  was  narrow,  a  mere  covered  pas- 
sage to  the  front  door  of  the  old  house,  and  it  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  apparent  seclusion,  while  it  commanded  a  dis- 
tinct view  of  the  tavern,  and  the  road,  and  the  country 
round  about.  Just  outside  the  narrow  yard  was  the  row 
of  poplars  and  the  "  hitching-post,"  but  not  a  shrub  or  bush 
broke  the  view  from  door  or  window. 

Sally  seated  herself  for  a  talk  with  the  minister,  not  en- 
tirely at  her  ease,  though  quite  conscious  of  the  attractions 
in  which  she  was  arrayed — for  she  had  dressed  herself  this 
morning  with  unusual  care,  and  had  this  thought  to  depend 
upon,  that  she  was  the  Elder's  daughter,  and  sole  heir,  and 
quite  independent — unlike  this  school-teacher  in  the  house, 
in  whose  favor  she  was  by  no  means  prejudiced. 

Mr.  Collamer  opened  the  conversation  by  asking  after  her 
friend,  the  young  lady  who  was  teaching  the  Martindale 
children  on  his  previous  preaching.  The  subject  had  some- 
how escaped  discussion  last  night,  when  Mr.  Carradine  was 
under  criticism. 

Sally  told  of  "  Carradine's  doings"  with  a  deal  of  spirit, 
and  contrived  to  cast  some  reflections  on  the  position  of  Miss 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  83 

Fuller.     if  How  did  Miss  Hoy  like  it  ?"  he  asked,  apparent- 
ly interested  in  what  he  had  heard. 

"  She  could  not  help  herself,"  Sally  answered.  "  He  did 
not  care  what  anybody  liked.  But  he  said  to  father  he  won- 
dered the  child's  spine  wasn't  broken."  She  just  glanced 
at  Mr.  Collamer  as  she  gave  this  bit  of  information — his  eye 
caught  hers,  and  he  held  her. 

"  Was  it  so  bad  as  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  she  replied  quickly,  as  if  she  feared 
that  he  would  suppose  she  had  brought  the  charge.  Per- 
haps there  was  more  of  conscious  guilt  than  conscious  inno- 
cence in  the  mood  that  yet  allowed  this  prompt  vindication. 
"  But  that  is  like  him." 

"  It  was  very  unfortunate,"  he  said,  musingly.  "  Very 
unfortunate.  How  uncomfortable  it  must  make  the  poor 
girl !"  Ho  was  thinking  that  he  might  introduce  into  his 
discourse  some  soothing  word  for  her.  Against  this  kindly 
wish  grated  the  voice  and  the  words  of  Sally  Green. 

"  She  is  glad,  though,  to  be  done  with  teaching,  I  be- 
lieve. I  don't  think  she"  was  meant  for  a  teacher.  She  is 
not  so  patient  as  some.  The  children  teazed  her,  and  they 
knew  it.  I've  seen  her  right  tired." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  he.  "  A  teacher's  life  is  no  pastime.  I 
have  tried  it.  Under  some  circumstances,  it  is  not  to  be 
coveted." 

"  But  there's  some  that  like  it — there's  Miss  Fuller.  She 
means  to  be  a  teacher  always,  so  she  told  Miranda." 

"  Then  they're  friends.     I'm  glad  of  that." 

Sally  surveyed  the  speaker  with  ill-pleased  surprise 
His  ready  sympathy  was  strange  and  unintelligible  to  her. 

"Friends  ?"  she  said.  "  Maybe  ;  they  are  both  poor  and 
work  for  a  living.  I  suppose  that  brings  them  nearer." 
There  spoke  the  heiress  ;  the  purse-pride  of  Esther  Green. 
Mr.  Collamer  smiled.  He  could  not  see  as  clearly  as  could 
Sally,  the  significance  of  the  fact  that  Randy  was  a  poor 
man's  daughter;  had  never  travelled  beyond  Brighton  ; 
dressed  poorly  ;  knew  nothing  about  fashions.  He  could 
not  understand  that  Sally's  endeavor  was  to  establish  in  his 
mind  a  distinction  between  friendship  and  acquaintance.  She 
had  no  friends  in  Martindale  !  though  born  and  bred  there  ; 
and  she  was  quite  out  of  her  proper  sphere,  condemned  to 
the  dullness  of  this  farming  district. 


84  PETER    CARRADINE. 

"  Mr.  Carradine  seems  to  be  a  man  of  wealth,"  he  said, 
not  willing  to  drop  that  point  quite  yet. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  very  rich.  But  you  wouldn'  t  know  it,  except 
by  going  over  his  farm.  A  foolish  way  of  spending  all  one's 
money.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Why,  what  does  one  see  on  his  farm  ?" 

"  Cattle,  and  sheep,  and  horses.  He  always  has  the  best 
premiums  at  the  Fairs.  He  sent  to  England  for  his  South 
downs.  He  was  the  first  man  in  this  country  that  brought 
them  out.  I  forget  what  it  cost  him  ;  but  a  sight  of  money. 
His  Aldernys  too — he's  famous  for  them.  It's  all  he  thinks 
of,  cattle  and  sheep.  He'd  risk  his  own  life,  and  that  of 
every  other  man  he  could  get  to  work  for  him  in  winter 
weather,  on  account  of  those  flocks  of  his." 

"  Then  he  is  kind  to  animals  ?"  observed  Mr.  Collaraer, 
quite  cheered  to  learn  that  the  man  was  not  perfectly  worth- 
less. 

"  He'd  turn  his  house  into  a  sheep  pen  any  time  ;  and 
he's  been  known  to  do  that  in  the  worst  weather.  Poor  Mrs. 
Johnson,  she  wasn't  brought  up  to  any  such  works.  It's 
amazing  curious — a  man  so  kind  and  careful  of  animals,  and 
so  hard  on  men  and  women." 

"  I'm  glad  to  find  he  has  so  much  humanity  in  him." 

Then  the  minister  turned  the  conversation  to  Sarah's  self. 
He  was  interested  in  hearing  her  school  experience  ;  he  was 
curious  to  know  what  her  present  occupations  were  ;  and  if 
she  had  planned  for  herself  any  course  of  study,  or  any  use- 
ful pursuit  in  particular  !  What  most  interested  her — and 
if  her  answers  exposed  her  to  the  harsh  criticism  of  an  ex- 
acting intelligence,  he  judged  her  with  lenience  ;  her  fool- 
ishness, and  vanity,  and  frivolity,  and  petty  ignorance,  did 
not  make  him  miserable.  He  could  pardon  it  all  with  the 
readiness  of  one  who  has  hardly  expected  anything  better. 
He  had  not  quite  the  notion  of  Mussulman  or  Chinese  con- 
cerning women,  because  he  was  not  born  in  Turkey  or  in 
China  !  He  believed  in  the  souls  of  women  !  but  the  faith 
had  not  urged  on  him  its  conclusions,  though  it  did  modify 
his  action. 


Very  composedly,  in  her  room,  sat  Mercy  Fuller,  writ- 
ing a  letter  to  Brighton,  which  she  intended  to  ask  the  min- 


THE  ELDER'S  HOUSE.  85 

ister  to  take  for  her,  if  it  chanced  that  he  was  to  return 
home  that  way. 

Very  thoughtfully  Miranda  Roy  went  about  her  morning 
work,  and  prepared  herself  for  the  meeting,  after  laying  out 
for  her  father  the  clean  clothes  he  was  to  wear  that  blessed 
day.  Very  peacefully  the  old  man  sat  in  his  Sunday  suit 
full  two  hours  before  the  time  of  assembling,  reading  David's 
Psalms. 

But  the  heart  of  Miranda  was  not  calm,  and  the  thoughts 
of  Sally  were  fluttering  ;  and  Miss  Fuller  wrote  in  her 
letter : 

"  It  seems,  if  I  may  judge  after  five  days'  observation, 
that  Martindale  is  much  like  other  places.  The  people  are 
human,  after  their  kind.  No  doubt  a  respectable  tragedy, 
in  five  acts,  might  be  made  out  of  their  real  experience." 

"  I  shall  preach,"  said  Mr.  Collamer,  from  the  text, 
'Are  there  feic  that  be  saved  ?  WJiat  is  that  to  thce  ?'  I 
will  show  them  the  meaning  of  charity." 

Huldah  G-reen  was  praising  the  Lord  after  her  special 
fashion,  as  she  hurried  through  her  work,  and  dressed  her- 
self, "  all  of  a  tremble,"  after  that  needful  haste,  which  was 
always  so  surprising,  so  incomprehensible,  tp  Sally. 


86  PETER   CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE      GATHERING. 

FOB.  the  first  time  since  the  day  when  the  school-house 
was  opened  as  a  place  of  worship,  Peter  Carradine  appeared 
among  the  people,  dressed  in  his  best  clothes  in  modest 
compliance  with  the  Sunday  habit  of  his  neighbors. 

He  walked  down  the  hill  towards  the  red  school-house, 
leading  Harry  Johnson  by  the  hand  in  a  very  well-behaved 
manner,  edifying  to  behold.  The  little  boy  carried  his  mo- 
ther's hymn-book,  and  manifested  a  becoming  child-radiance 
on  that  bright  Sunday  morning.  Now  and  then  he  would 
dart  away  from  Mr.  Carradine  and  perform  an  independent 
caper,  expressive  of  his  state  of  beatitude  ;  a  captured  but- 
terfly, or  a  flower  snapped  from  its  stem,  were  the  trophies 
he  carried  with  him  even  to  the  school-house  door — but  no- 
thing so  profane  was  allowed  across  that  threshold — so  the 
fly  took  to  its  wings,  and  the  empyrean  aspirations — and  the 
flower  lay  wilting  on  the  ground  in  the  hot  sun,  with  many 
other  spoiled,  neglected  treasures,  on  that  holy  day. 

Carradine  wakened  in  the  morning  with  a  purpose  of  at- 
tending meeting  that  was  clearly  ascertained.  At  the  break- 
fast table  he  announced  his  purpose.  Mrs.  Johnson  dared 
not  express  her  perfect  satisfaction  thereupon,  but  neither 
could  she  forbear  saying  : 

"  There's  the  young  man  that  preached  at  the  last  preach- 
ing,  he's  to  preach  again.  Harry  saw  him  riding  up  to  El- 
der Green's." 

"  Young  or  old,"  said  Carradine,  "  it  don't  matter  much 
to  me  ;  I'm  going.  He's  not  quite  a  fool,  I  hope,  though, 
this  young  preacher." 

"  Oh  !  why  you  hardly  ever  heerd  such  a  young  man.  So 
lovely  looking  ;  and  speaking  out  so  strong  ;  you  might  think 


THE    GATHERING.  87 

it  was  a  spirit,  Mr.  Carradine."  That  was  plainly  a  rebuke 
for  his  profanity — but  it  was  spoken  in  a  way  that  did  not 
try  his  patience  too  far. 

"  Well,  if  he  preaches  Gospel,  well  and  good.  But  I 
don't  want  to  hear  of  his  notions  !"  said  the  man,  with  an 
aspect  rather  threatening,  though  by  no  means  terrible. 
Such  a  mood  as  this  present  could  not  excite  to  any  manner 
of  disturbance  the  woman,  who  understood  his  moods  so 
well. 

Among  the  few  things  Carradine  had  inherited  from  his 
mother  was  an  old  hymn-book,  on  whose  fly-leaf  was  written, 
in  a  cramped  hand,  but  legible  as  print,  "  Marcia  Camp," 
and  under  that  maiden  name,  the  name  of  "  Carradine."  He 
was  looking  into  it  this  morning. 

"  She  was  a  girl  when  she  wrote  that,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  a  pretty  girl — spry,  and  quicker  to  think  out  any  business 
than  I've  seen  again."  And,  as  he  meditated,  the  eyes  of 
Mercy  Fuller  seemed  to  look  out  from  the  page,  and  he  al- 
most fancied  for  a  moment  that  they  were  like  his  mother's 
eyes.  But  a  clearer  recollection,  that  seemed  to  stir  him  so 
much  that  he  shuddered,  banished  the  face  of  the  intruder, 
and  left  alone,  in  the  space  of  darker  shadows,  age  and  sick 
ness,  death  and  ruin. 

The  leather  covers  of  this  book  were  black  with  age  ;  its 
leaves  were  yellow,  soiled  and  tattered  ;  he  thought,  as  he 
stood  there  in  the  door  of  his  chamber,  looking  over  its  pa- 
ges in  the  early  morning,  that  he  would  not  part  with  it  for 
any  price. 

It  was  before  sunrise  that  he  stood  there  with  that  book 
in  his  hand  ;  and  the  hymns  he  read  were  some  that  he  had 
heard  Harry  repeat,  and  some  that  he  had  heard  Miss  Fuller 
recite  for  the  child.  And  it  seemed  now  that  among  these 
hymns  were  some  he  had  heard  his  mother  sing,  how  long, 
oh,  what  ages  ago  !  Yes,  and  turning  those  pages,  he  came 
to  one  that  was  folded  together.  He  opened  it  almost  as  he 
might  haVe  opened  a  coffin  lid.  It  was  the  "  dead  past  " 
whose  domain  he  entered.  Could  it  be  without  trembling, 
if  even  without  fear,  that  he  read  these  lines,  to  which  her 
finger  seemed  still  pointing  ? 

"  Disconsolate  tenant  of  clay, 
In  solemn  assurance  arise, 
Thy  treasure  of  sorrow  survey, 
And  look  through  it  all  to  the  skies; 


88  PETER    GAKRADINE. 

That  heavenly  house  is  prepared 

For  all  who  are  sufferers  here, 
And  wait  the  return  of  their  Lord 

And  long  tor  his  day  to  appear. 

"  There  all  the  tempestuous  blast 

Of  bitter  affliction  is  o'er ; 
The  spirit  is  landed  at  last, 

And  sorrow  and  shame  are  no  more , 
Temptation  and  trouble  are  gone, 

The  trial  is  all  at  an  end — 
And  there  I  shall  cease  to  bemoan 

The  loss  of  iny  brother  and  friend." 

Alas  for  life  !  in  death  alone  she  had  found  brightening 
prospect.  Not  any  promise  more  of  this  world's  blessed- 
ness !  All  it  had  ever  given  her  was  broken  !  Its  hopes 
had  all  deceived  her. 

Carradine's  going  to  church  this  morning  was  an  act  sanc- 
tified by  this  remembrance  of  his  mother.  Let  curious  eyes 
set  watch  on  him,  and  faithful  memory  recite  the  bitter 
past ;  he  sits  there  in  his  black  coat,  in  his  right  mind,  as 
serious  a  listener  as  the  preacher's  discerning  eyes  shall 
fall  on.  And  among  the  people  are  some  anxious  souls  who 
speculate  upon  the  chances  of  his  becoming  a  member. 
Only  bring  him  round  to  that  point,  and  the  man  who  sent 
to  England  for  his  Southdowns  and  Arden  horses  would  not 
be  dependent  on  the  town  of  Brighton  for  his  preaching  ! 

When  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  schoolhouse,  Carradiue 
and  little  Harry  Johnson  met  Elder  Green  and  his  party. 
His  most  astonished  mother,  (much  I  wonder  if  she  gave 
thanks  that  morning  that  the  feet  of  Peter  had  been  led 
down  to  the  Lord's  house,  and  whether  she  prayed  for  him  !) 
Esther,  was  in  her  Sunday  gear  and  Sunday  countenance,  and 
every  wrinkle  seemed  to  underscore  the  "  Sabbath  frame  of 
mind."  There  was  her  son,  on  whose  arm  she  leaned,  who 
seemed  to  move  in  her  shadow,  so  grimly  grave  he  was  in 
his  stiff  Sunday  clothes.  There  was  Huldah,  walking  with 
Miss  Fuller,  and  the  one  was  mild  and  the  other  calm,  and 
they  breathed  in  the  morning  balm  and  rejoiced  in  the  Sun- 
day brightness.  Last  came  Sally,  and  alone,  for  the  minister 
had  preceded  them  by  a  few  minutes,  and  already  sat  in  his 
place  behind  the  desk.  Sally  must  have  forgotten  the  veil 
she  had  threatened.  Her  little  bonnet  was  not  eked  out  by 
anything  so  hideous.  It  was  the  pink  silk  hat  she  bought 


THE    GATHERING.  89 

last  summer,  that  she  might  be  decent  to  walk  in  the  pro- 
cession with  Miss  Stein's  young  ladies.  The  effect  thereof 
never  failed  to  startle  the  modest  Elder,  but  grandma  Green's 
emotions  were  of  another  character.  What  she  had  eschewed 
her  life  long  in  her  own  behalf,  she  advocated,  heart  and 
soul,  in  behalf  of  Sally.  Why  should  she  not  be  the  leader 
of  fashion  in  Martindale  ?  Only  the  old  lady  proposed  the 
question  under  a  form  varied  a  little  from  the  above.  Pink 
hat  and  black  lace  shawl — alas,  poor  Oliver  !  Had  the  blue 
coat  and  the  brass  buttons,  and  white  waistcoat,  no  chance 
at  all  that  day  ?  He  was  doomed  to  sit  and  see  her  eyes 
fixed  on  that  young  preacher  full  an  hour  and  a  half. 

A  long  time  Miranda  and  her  father  had  sat  quiet  in  their 
places,  waiting  for  the  gathering  of  the  neighbors  and  the 
coming  of  the  minister. 

Not  lost  upon  him  was  the  look  of  surprise  that  accompa- 
nied the  nod  of  recognition  when  Carradine  stood  one  side 
until  the  Elder's  party  should  enter  the  school-house.  Not 
lost  on  him  was  the  friendly  greeting,  in  which  he  saw  no 
surprise,  with  which  Mercy  Fuller  bade  him  "  good  morn- 
ing." 

Mr.  Carradine  sat  down  on  the  bench  nearest  the  door,  for 
the  comfort  of  the  breeze,  not  to  escape  observation — indeed 
he  could  not  have  chosen  a  more  conspicuous  position,  for 
his  seat  commanded  a  view  of  the  entire  congregation.  He 
seemed  not  to  be  thinking  of  himself  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
be  awkwardly  conscious  of  his  presence  among  a  body  of 
people  assembled  for  worship. 

But  he  sat  stiffly,  and  apparently  unobserving,  with  Har- 
ry by  his  side,  the  little  flaxen-headed,  rosy-cheeked  lad, 
whose  face  was  round  as  an  apple  and  eyes  bright  as  two 
stars  ;  what  an  aid  and  stay  that  morning  to  the  strong,  de- 
termined man  ! 

When  the  hymn  was  given  out  he  found  the  place,  and 
followed  the  minister  in  his  reading  through  every  line  ,  no 
easy  task,  for  his  eyes  were  unaccustomed  to  such  print ; 
through  the  reading  of  the  Scripture  his  eyes  were  on  the 
minister.  He  was  Peter  Carradine,  and  if  he  chose  to  sit  in 
the  school-house  that  hot  Sunday,  and  listen  to  what  a  young 
man  had  to  say — whose  business  was  it,  pray  ? 

Once  he  looked  around  upon  his  neighbors,  took  a  delib- 


90  PETER    CARRADINE. 

erate  survey.     But  when  Mr.  Collamer  began  his  sermon  his 
attention  seemed  to  be  absorbed  by  the  speaker. 

The  minister  preached  according  to  the  agreement  he  had 
made  with  himself.  He  preached  with  power,  and  had  his 
evidences  in  the  attention,  the  kind  and  degree  of  attention, 
with  which  his  words  were  received. 

If  it  was  in  his  power,  he  said  before  he  went  into  the 
school-house,  he  would  make  those  men  and  women  feel  tint 
he  was  speaking  to  themselves,  and  not  to  their  neighbors. 

Peter  Carradine,  who  seemed  to  loom  up  through  the  dis- 
course more  and  more  conspicuously  as  a  tower  of  strength, 
inviting  assault,  was  not  the  main  point  of  attack,  not  the 
only  character  that  had  a  searching  investigation.  But  his 
method  of  receiving  the  word  was  altogether  original.  He 
nodded  his  assent. — he  looked  the  broadest  encouragement 
on  the  young  man,  as  if  to  say,  "  Go  ahead,  I  will  endorse 
and  sustain  you,  my  fine  fellow,  through  it  all,"  and  at  the 
conclusion  the  wonder  was  that,  in  his  state  of  feeling,  he 
did  not  rise  up  and  thank  the  preacher  for  his  sensible  re- 
marks. He  might  have  done  it  privately,  but  for  the  an- 
nouncement which  followed  the  preaching. 

The  minister's  endeavor  in  behalf  of  others  was  not  en- 
tirely a  failure.  Look  at  what  was  going  on  in  the  hearts 
of  some  of  our  friends  while  he  continued  speaking. 

Sally  Green  was  wondering  whether  it  was  possible  that 
she  had  said  more  than  she  meant  to  say,  when  she  spoke 
with  the  minister  about  Miranda ;  and  she  winced  under  the 
suspicion  that  he  had  seen  through  her  words  ;  she  recalled 
her  speech  with  painful  distinctness  and  precision,  and, 
while  satisfied  that  she  had  spoken  the  truth  merely,  she  had 
the  conviction  of  a  purpose  not  entirely  honest,  to  deal  with. 
And  all  through  this  preaching  she  was  wrestling  with  an 
angel,  to  evade  his  blessing.  The  Angel  of  His  Presence, 
the  Voice  of  her  Conscience,  was  speaking  in  a  tone  so  loud, 
she  could  not  deny  her  hearing.  Yet  would  she  resist  His 
conviction. 

Only  in  partial  revelation  she  beheld  the  highest  human 
good.  Dimly  revealed  stood  human  love  before  her  foolish 
heart.  She  desired  it.  Her  desire,  of  course,  must  be  after 
her  own  fashion  ;  truer  than  she  could  interpret ;  deeper  than 
she  could  make  intelligible.  It  was  satisfied,  when  it  could 
get  nothing  better,  with  poor  Savage's  admiring  worship. 


THE    GATHERING.  91 

But  here,  now,  was  a  finer  spirit  imminent,  in  whose  pres- 
ence she  was  not  quite  her  ordinary  self ;  before  whom  she 
felt  doubtful  of  that  self ;  to  whom  she  found  herself  speak- 
ing as  she  did  not  to  others.  Her  charms,  her  fortune 
even,  seemed  depreciated  in  value  when  she  estimated 
them,  for  him  She  wondered  what  would  come  of  his  ap- 
parent interest  in  Randy's  affairs  ;  she  compared  herself 
with  Randy.  She  would  consent,  she  thought,  to  be  con- 
verted, if  by  that  means  anything  could  be  gained.  Igno- 
rantly,  selfishly,  she  might  long,  but  the  longing  in  its  es- 
sence was  divine,  as  the  infant's  who  cries  for  the  moon  ;  as 
the  warrior's  who  conquers  the  world.  Vain,  curious,  she 
bade  fair  to  come  as  short  of  love  as  Alexander  came  short 
of  dominion  whose  existence  was  unguessed  by  him. 

So  she  listened  with  noteworthy  interest  to  the  preacher's 
earnest  words,  not  unobserved  of  those  immediately  sur- 
rounding her,  nor  of  the  preacher  himself.  Impressed  by 
her  solemnity,  Oliver's  face  lengthened,  but  his  eyes  were 
not  withheld  from  wandering.  She  wore  no  veil,  that  was  a 
comfortable  sign. 

Samuel  Roy  gave  his  reverent  assent  to  every  word  the 
preacher  spoke.  He  believed,  he  hoped  all — and  prayed 
through  the  preaching,  "Let  Thy  word  prevail !"  and  twice 
a  hearty  "  Amen  "  escaped  from  his  abstraction,  in  full  en- 
dorsement of  the  speaker's  words. 

His  daughter  meditated  : 

"  What  brought  Mr.  Carradine  here  ?  To  ajfront  me,  I 
reckon,  and  get  the  opinion  of  the  people.  There  isn't  a  soul 
in  Martindale  dare  say  his  soul's  his  own  when  it's  against 
Peter  Carradine.  Are  there  few  that  be  saved  ?  I  should 
think  likely;  but  he  seems  to  make  it  out  pretty  clear  it's 
none  of  our  business.  I  like  Senior  for  one  thing;  he's  no 
hypocrite.  Likely  Peter  didn't  want  Miss  Fuller's  good 
opinion  !  Senior  says  right  out,  no,  I  don't  want  any  of 
your  meeting  going.  Them  that  makes  a  profession  are  only 
sarving  in  disguise,  and  making  on  the  sly  what  they'd  lose 
by  their  religion.  And,  according  to  my  opinion,  he  is  in 
the  right  of  it.  I  wonder  if,  when  I  keep  the  public  with 
him,  there'll  be  a  chance  for  me.  If  I  could  get  religion — 
he  seems  to  make  it  extraordinary  plain  !  Oh,  if  I  could 
understand  it  all  as  he  does  !  He  looks  as  an  angel  just  lit 
on  the  earth  might  look,  and  gospel  means  glad  tidings, 


92  PETER  CARRADINE. 

father  says — he  looks  full  of  them  certainly.  There's  Oliver 
Savage  watching  Sally  as  a  cat  does  a  mouse.  Let  me  see 
him  catch  her  !"  And  so  on;  disquieting  her  heart  in  vain, 
coming  back,  continually  coming  back,  to  heed  what  the 
preacher  was  saying — seeing  in  the  mortal  man  the  glorified 
angel,  as  often  as  she  came,  and  sighing  from  her  heart  as 
she  thought  of  the  wisdom  and  the  knowledge  he  had,  whose 
possession  she  regarded  as  forever  unattainable  by  mortals 
such  as  she. 

Huldah  Green  bethought  her  of  numberless  kindnesses  it 
was  in  her  power  to  perform  to  her  neighbors — and  some  of 
them  came  to  her  like  illuminations — she  was  eager  to  go 
forth  on  the  kindly  service.  How  could  it  be  that  she  had 
never  till  now  thought  of  these  things  ?  With  suffused 
eyes,  and  flushed  face,  she  looked  at  the  young  man  whose 
godly  counsel  had  taught  her  of  them,  and  blessed  him  from 
her  heart. 

And  the  Elder  thought  that,  should  it  please  the  Lord  to 
grant  him  such  a  son-in-law,  he  would  depart  in  peace. 
Half  the  congregation  would  have  comforted  him  with  pro- 
phecies to  that  effect  had  it  been  possible  for  them  to  guess 
that  such  a  thought  intruded  among  his  Sunday  medi- 
tations ! 

But  the  Elder's  mother  was  not  altogether  pleased  that 
Mr.  Collainer  should  make  so  free  with  mysteries,  explain- 
ing 'em  away  till  there  didn't  seem  nothing  left  but  was 
clear  as  daylight — nothing  to  hold  publicans  and  sinners  by. 

The  announcement  alluded  to,  made  by  Mr.  Collamer  be- 
fore the  concluding  prayer  of  this  Sunday  service,  was  to  tho 
effect  that,  in  the  beginning  of  next  week,  a  camp-meeting 
would  be  opened  in  their  neigborhood,  of  which  he  had 
been  requested  to  inform  the  brethren. 

Mr.  Carradiue's  head  lifted  a  little  more  conspicuously  at 
this.  The  expression  of  his  face  entirely  changed.  He 
looked  around  him  with  scornful  incredulity.  Was — it — 
possible  ! 

Confronting  this  exhibition,  but  not  the  least  dismayed  by 
it,  the  preacher  went  on  to  state  the  purpose  of  the  proposed 
meeting.  It  had  been  undertaken,  on  mature  deliberation, 
by  those  who  believed  that  great  good  would  result  from  it. 
He  hoped  his  brethren  would  regard  it  in  the  right  light — 


THE    GATHERING.  93 

not  as  a  "  religious  pic-nic,"  but  as  a  movement  directed  by 
the  Spirit  of  God. 

If,  by  his  presence  in  the  school-house,  he  had  seemed  to 
countenance  any  such  proceedings,  Mr.  Carradine  was  bound 
to  set  himself  in  the  right  light.  The  immediate  influence 
cf  the  hour  and  sermon  was  quite  lost  in  the  displeasure 
which  he  felt,  and  deemed  himself  called  upon  to  proclaim  to 
the  neighborhood. 

He  began  at  his  own  table,  with  Johnson  and  wife  for  an 
audience.  But  began  so  mildly — for  his  ire  had  by  this 
time  greatly  moderated — that  Mrs.  Johnson  undertook  to 
argue  with  him.  An  indiscretion  that  distressed  her 
spouse,  who  never  in  his  life  had  disputed  with  the  pro- 
prietor. 

"  Certain,  you  disremember  the  blessed  times  of  Whitfield, 
when  people  came  together  in  such  crowds  there  was  no  room 
for  'cm  in  any  building  that  was  made  with  hands." 

"  There  !  you  say  that !"  he  cried,  coming  out  so  sudden- 
ly with  his  emphatic  speech  as  to  startle  her  and  frighten 
her  husband,  "  It's  because  I  remember,  that  I  stand  strong 
on  the  opposition !  Bring  on  your  Whitfield,  or  Wesley, 
any  one  for  that  matter  who'll  draw  thousands  of  folks 
together,  all  for  hearing  what  they've  got  to  say.  Am  I  the 
man  to  hoot  at  'em  ?  I'd  be  at  the  expense  of  putting  up  a 
platform  and  tent  for  such  a  man  myself.  I  would  indeed! 
with  pleasure.  But  now,  bring  on  your  men  !  and  look  over 
this  district.  What  good  is  such  a  meeting  going  to  do  ?'' 

"  It's  to  bring  in  the  outsiders,"  began  Mrs.  Johnson, 

"  Pops,"  said  Harry,  addressing  his  father,  curious  and 
puzzled,  "  what's  a  outsider  1" 

"  Sell  !  sch  !"  was  Johnson's  answer.  Carradine  over- 
heard the  two,  and  said  : 

"Uncle  Carradine  is  one,  and  pops  is  another  of  what  your 
mother  means,  but  Harry  isn't,  for  the  Scripture  reads,  '  of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  " 

"  It's  them,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  moved  perhaps  by  Car- 
radine's  words,  to  give  an  answer  slightly  varied  from  that  he 
had  returned  to  Harry's  question,  "  as  'ud  never  think  to 
set  foot  in  a  school'us,  or  meetin'us,  or  barn  either,  for  that 
matter,  for  worship.  There's  many  will  come  to  look  on 
and  think  no  disgrace  to  be  seen  standing  up  under  trees  a 
listening  to  Gospel.  They  look  on  as  'twere  a  frolic — but 


94  PETER   CARRADINE. 

'taint  none  o"  that,  as  they  may  be  brought  to  see  God 
willing." 

"  The  minister  named  it  right,  though,  when  he  said  you 
wasn't  to  look  at  it  as  a  religious  pic-nic.  But  you  do.  And 
that's  what  it  is." 

"  There's  some,"  she  answered,  "  as  comes  to  mock  and 
stay  to  pray.  I  can't  think  of  anything  more  blessed  than 
sermons  I've  heerd  in  the  woods  ;  and  prayer-meetings  I've 
attended  when  I  was  a  girl.  I  seemed  to  get  nigher  Heaven 
in  them  days  than  I've  been  since  I  came  to  Martindell. 
And  a  camp-meetin'  was  the  soleinnest  place  this  side  of 
it." 

Her  seriousness,  and  the  courage  which  he  seemed  to 
think  was  requisite  to  this  confession,  induced  Mr.  Carra- 
dine  to  say : 

"  Ah,  if  folks  were  all  like  you,  Mrs.  Johnson  !" 

At  which  she  blushed  crimson,  for  she  had  looked  at  her- 
self during  the  preaching  with  anything  but  admiring  eyes. 

"  You're  laughing  at  me,  sir  ;  but  I  know  what  I  know. 
It  was  at  camp-meetin'  you  set  so  little  store  by  I  got  all 
the  religion  I've  ever  had.  It  isn't  much,  but,  thank  God! 
it  isn't  less!  I  was  a  giddy  girl  as  e'er  lived,  and  it  was 
there  the  arrer  struck  me,  and  I  was  slain  of  the  Lord." 

"  I  thank  the  Lord  for  raising  3-011  up  again,  Mrs.  John- 
son. So  does  Johnson,  here,"  said  Mr.  Carradine,  gravely  ; 
but,  though  gravely,  neither  of  his  hearers  felt  quite  sure  of 
him. 

"  I've  got  nothing  agin  the  camp-meetin',"  said  Johnson, 
secretly  siding  with  his  wife,  though  he  could  not  contend 
with  Mr.  Carradine,  as  she  had  done. 

"  Up  the  hill  you  can  count  six  meeting-house  steeples  ; 
show  me  the  one  that's  crowded  of  a  Sunday.  If  every  man 
is  doing  right  as  he  sees  it,  where's  the  use  of  his  being 
riled  in  order  to  find  out  the  settlings  of  him  ?  A  clear 
spring  of  water's  a  prettier  sight  than  a  ditch  filled  to  the 
brim,"  said  Mr.  Carradine. 

"  It's  for  outsiders,"  repeated  Mrs.  Johnson,  speaking 
timidly,  as  she  returned  to  this  argument ;  "  for  the  out- 
siders, and  warming  up  of  the  professors — goodness  knows, 
we  need  it.  I  don't  see  nobody  too  good.  It's  for  them  that 
wants  to  go,  too.  We  can't  all  see  alike,  sir.  It's  well  we 


THE    GATHERING.  95 

can't.     I  won't  set  up  for  a  Judge    in   Israel.    Things 'ull 
take  their  course." 

Gradually,  out  of  consideration  for  each  other,  it  appeared, 
Mr.  Carradine  and  Mrs.  Johnson  dropped  their  weapons  and 
went  on  with  their  dinner  peaceably,  each  rejoicing  still  in 
an  unaltered  conviction.  Mr.  Carradine  a  little  impressed 
by  the  woman's  magnanimous  rejection  of  the  judgeship. 
Did  she  mean  to  remind  him  of  the  rights  of  private  feeling  ? 


All  that  afternoon,  Sally  sat  in  the  porch,  where  she  was 
seated  when  the  minister  took  his  leave  of  the  family.  As 
he  came  out  from  the  "  keeping-room,"  he  took  from  the 
bureau  where  her  father  kept  his  religious  library,  (a  select 
collection  of  a  dozen  volumes,)  a  little  book,  "  Baxter's 
Call,"  and  brought  it  to  Miss  Sally.  Had  she  ever  read 
this  volume  1  No.  She  turned  the  leaves  a  little  serious, 
a  little  curious,  and  a  good  deal  fluttered.  She  had  glanced 
ere  now  at  the  pages  only  to  close  them  and  throw  the  book 
aside  with  speed.  But  now  he  said  : 

"  Oh,  my  dear  young  lady,  if  you  would  only  believe  what 
is  written  there,  and  take  it  to  heart,  and  act  on  the  truth, 
how  grateful  should  I  feel  to  God  for  the  disposition  I  now 
have  to  urge  you.  Youth  and  beauty  and  wealth  perish  ; 
truth  only  is  eternal.  And  from  this  golden  book  you  might 
learn  rare  things  concerning  it.  If  I  might  dare  to  exact  a 
promise  from  you,  it  should  be  that  you  would  study  it." 

"  I  will,  if  you  set  so  much  by  it.  But  it  looks  very  dull," 
said  Sally,  who  was  manifestly  moved  by  the  earnestness  of 
his  appeal  and  the  directness  of  his  glance. 

He  had  already  her  father's  assurance  that,  of  course,  his 
family  would  be  on  the  camping-ground  during  the  holding  of 
the  proposed  meeting,  and  he  now  volunteered  the  wish  that 
she  might  find  satisfaction  in  the  services,  and  he  went  away 
hoping  something,  as  a  Christian  man,  from  the  interest  she 
seemed  to  manifest  in  regard  to  that  appointed  gathering. 

A  long  time  after  his  departure  from  the  town,  Sally  sat 
in  the  porch,  by  no  means  finding  Baxter's  Call  importunate. 
With  wandering  thoughts  she  yet  endeavored  to  follow  its 
leadings,  and  very  solemnly  she  looked  over  the  chapters 
Mr.  Collamer  had  specially  pointed  out.  But  it  was  very, 


90  PETER   CARRADINE. 

very  dull  to  her,  if  indeed  she  rightly  understood  what  the 
writer  was  aiming  at.  By-ajid-by  she  fell  into  a  reverie,  and 
the  book  slipped  from  her  hand  to  the  floor.  Though  she 
snatched  it  up  again,  it  was  not  to  read  in  it  any  longer. 
She  laid  it  on  the  bench  beside  her  and  began  to  think  of 
the  preacher,  to  recall  him  as  he  had  looked  and  spoken  in 
the  school-house,  and  just  now  in  the  porch.  What  he  had 
said,  less  than  his  good  looks,  his  eloquent  manner,  had  made 
the  impression  on  Sally. 

He  seemed  to  be  exercised  very  much  also  on  her  account 
she  thought.  During  the  sermon  he  had  fascinated  her,  com- 
pelled her  attention  by  the  way  in  which,  now  and  then,  his 
eyes  fixed  full  upon  her.  A  dozen  other  persons,  men  and 
women,  old  and  young,  could  have  reported  the  like  fact  as 
of  their  own  experience  that  day ;  but  Sally  fancied  that 
it  was  peculiar  to  herself,  and  made  the  most  of  the  belief, 
for  it  flattered  her  vanity  and  endorsed  her  own  view  of  her 
power.  She  dreamed  diligently  all  that  afternoon,  and  saw, 
among  other  things,  that  the  camp-meeting  was  destined  to 
witness,  or  to  herald,  many  important  events.  And  she  re- 
flected with  a  satisfaction  that  sent  a  ray  of  pleasure  to  her 
face,  that  the  gray  bonnet  she  wore  last  winter,  with  modest 
bits  of  cherry-colored  ribbon  set  in  the  demure  trimming, 
was  the  hat  that,  of  all  others,  most  became  her  ;  surely  it 
was  plain  enough  for  the  head  of  the  strictest  professor  ? 
Also,  she  remembered  that  the  wives  of  the  orthodox  minis- 
ters of  Brighton  were  not  by  any  means  remarkable  for 
their  grave  attire.  What  was  there,  after  all,  in  a  color  or  a 
cut,  that  sensible  people  should  take  offence  at,  or  recognize 
as  a  symbol  of  good  or  evil ! 

Meanwhile  Samuel  Roy  had  talked  the  sermon  over  from 
beginning  to  end,  and  had  found  his  daughter  full  of  acqui- 
escence. This  brought  them  by  degrees  to  speech  in  which 
Randy  felt  more  interest,  and  the  departure  from  the  Sun- 
day strain  was  so  gradual  and  natural  that  it  was  even  unob- 
served by  Samuel. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  answering  his  remark  that  he  thought 
all  the  neighbors  had  been  present  at  the  meeting  that  day  ; 
:<  yes,  I  don't  know  as  one  was  missing." 

'  'Cept  Senior  Jobson.  It  would  be  wonderfuller  to  see 
him  brought  in  than  Carradine  even." 


THE    GATHERING.  97 

"  Senior  has  lived  in  this  country  a'  most  as  long  as  fa- 
ther ;  hasn't  he,  father  ?" 

"  No,  child,  no.  Senior  is  a  young  man  to  some  of  us.  I 
remember  the  first  year  he  came  in  't  Martindell.  I  was  an 
old  settler  then.  But  I  never  knowed  Senior  for  a  meeting 
goer  yet.  The  tavern's  a  bad  place  for  one  of  his  make." 

"  There's  worse  men  than  Senior  Jobson,  though.  Even 
when  he's  in  liquor,  he's  more  reasonable  than  some  that's 
innocent  of  a  drop.  It  isn't  likely  that  he'll  ever  quit  the  tav- 
ern stand.  Is't  ?  -. 

"  I'm  led  to  hope  incredible  things  for  all  this  deestric. 
I  never  see  a  camp-meeting  yet  as  wa'nt  a  day  of  the  Lord. 
There's  some  that's  weighing  on  my  heart  like  lead. 
And  over  them  I'm  given  to  hope  there'll  be  shoutings  of 
Hallelujah,  before  this  week  is  ended." 

"  But  you  don't  think  's  likely  Senior  will  ever  shut  up 
the  Spread  Eagle  ?  That's  his  living,  father." 

"  He  might  keep  a  temp'rance,  Randy.  It's  no  sin  for 
'm  t'  commodate  the  public  ;  and  there's  them  that  travels 
about  wouldn't  be  beholden  to  any  but  a  public  for  a  lodgin', 
but  I've  lived  to  see  what  I  feared  to  see  when  Senior  Jobson 
come  to  me  and  said  he'd  boughten  Widde  Grover's  hum, 
and  was  going  to  set  up  for  a  landlord.  Says  I  that  day, 
think  twice  about  that'n,  Senior.  I  remember  it  clear,  says 
he,  standing  up  afore  me  looking  proud  and  ekil  to  anything, 
'  it's  sink  or  swim,'  said  he,  a  looking  sort  o'  terrible,  '  it's 
sink  or  swim  !'  And  I  knowed  it  was.  But  it's  been  all  a 
sinkin',  Randy.  Jobson  hasn't  a  better  friend  than  I  be, 
though  it's  rare  I  cross  his  threshold.  He's  swum,  he 
thinks.  That's  the  worst  of  it — t'  appearance  he's  drownded, 
Senior  is." 

"  While  there's  life,  there's  hope,"  said  Randy.  "  There 
wouldn't  be  danger  to  father  if  he  should  be  kind  to  Senior 
— friends  like,  as  once,  who  could  wonder  at  it  ?" 

"  I'd  put  out  to  save  him.  I'd  swim  a  rough  sea.  Though 
when  he  got  into  his  gambling  ways  there  was  ugly  stories 
about  Senior.  There  was  hard-won  earnings  that  changed 
hands  suddenly.  But  it's  the  worst  of  Senior,  you  can't 
catch  him  ;  he's  ily.  He  dodges  round  and  round,  and  it's 
my  opinion  that  if  e'er  a  man  went  through  a  gimblet  hole, 
Senior  is  that  man.  Oh!  I've  had  hopes  of  him  !  and  there's 
been  times  when  he  seemed  just  ready  to  step  into  the  king- 

5 


98  PETE  11    CAERADIXE. 

dom  of  Heaven  as  if  he  couldn't  help  it,  it  come  so  nigh 
him — hut  afore  one  could  thank  God  for  't,  he  was  off  again. 
No — you  can't  tell  me  anything  about  him.  I  don't  like  to 
say  it ;  but  I'm  feared,  I'm  feared  he's  a  hopeless  case." 

" 'Twouldn't  be  so  if  he  had  any  one  to  care  fur  him," 
said  Randy.  "  See  how  kind  he  is  to  Junior's  children." 

"  They're  to  have  his  fortin,  I'm  credibly  informed.  Ethan 
Allen  is  to  keep  the  tavern  when  they're  all  dead  and  gone. 
That's  his  plan." 

"  But  Senior  might  be  married  himself,  father,  I  should 
think." 

"  He's  been  to  nigh  unto  that  more'n  once.  He'd  want 
a  womern  like  himself — and  may  I  never  live  to  see  such  a 
one  come  into  Martindell!" 

"  Why,  father  !"  said  Randy,  and  the  little  laugh  she  gave 
was  a  snare ;  it  would  set  him  on  to  illustrate  his  meaning  : 
she  was  not  mistaken. 

"  I've  seen  such  a  womern,"  said  he.  "  I've  seen  'cm 
down  to  Brighton.  Gadders  about,  free  livers,  nussing 
their  bodies  and  letting  their  souls  go  to  rot.  They  skeer 
me,  them  womern,  with  their  flauntin  fine  ways,  along  with 
their  boisterous  speech." 

"  Why,  father,  you  think  such  a  woman  would  take  Se- 
nior ?" 

"  What's  he  want  of  a  wife  ?  To  call  in  his  customers,  I 
say — the  sort  that  sits  guzzling  and  gossiping  in  the  bar 
to  make  all  agreeable." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  she,  "  that  isn't  Senior  Jobson's  notion. 
I'm  sure  of  it.  If  he  took  a  wife,  it  wouldn't  be  for  a  sign- 
post, but  for  a  woman  to  be  kind  to,  who'd  help  him  to  be 
a  better  man  and  keep  a  better  public.  I  believe  that's  the 
right  kind  of  o'  woman  would  be  to  Senior." 

"  Randy,  mark  my  words.  I  don't  know  what  he's  think- 
ing of  in  these  days — getting  married,  like's  not — but  such 
a  man  won't  never  pick  out  the  right  kind  of  womern,  he'll 
keep  on  as  he's  began.  How's  he  going  to  know  what's  good 
for  'ni — running  aground  so  in  all  his  sailing  ?" 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the  old  man.  Randy  opened 
it,  expecting  to  see  the  person  whom  thay  had  been  discuss- 
ing— there  he  stood — and  then  she  was  surprised.  Her 
father,  who  had  risen  and  followed  her  to  the  door,  put  out 
his  hand.  A  vague  conviction  that  Senior  had  been  led  to 


THE    GATHERING.  99 

make  this  unwonted  visit  on  a  Sunday  evening,  made  him 
offer  his  hand  cordially,  and  he  gave  the  innkeeper  a  hearty 
welcome. 

"  Come  in  !  come  in  !"  said  he.  "  Randy,  set  a  chair. 
Ye'r  welcome,  Mr.  Jobson,  and  isn't  this  a  Sunday  even  to 
do  the  soul  o'  man  good  ?" 

"  It's  a  fair  night  coming  over  us,"  answered  Senior, 
standing  on  the  lintel,  tall  and  bland.  "  You're  enjoying  it 
here  so  with  Randy,  1  do'  know  as  I'm  priveleged  to  ask — 
a  favor." 

"  Sit  down  ;  sit  down,  Jobson,"  urged  Samuel,  moved  to 
feel  that  a  day  of  the  Lord  might  even  be  at  hand,  so  seri- 
ously and  so  kindly  Senior  regarded  him,  and  so  fine  the  inn- 
keeper looked  in  his  best  Sunday  clothes. 

"  I  would,  thank  ye,  but  Junior's  wife  is  poorly,  and  she 
sent  to  ask  the  favor  that  Randy  would  come  sit  with  her  for 
an  hour." 

Of  course  a  request  of  this  nature  was  not  to  be  withstood. 
Roy  was  even  more  urgent  in  hurrying  her  off,  than  Randy 
was  in  haste  to  go,  for  she  believed  that  Senior  had  invented 
the  case  of  necessity.  But  she  did  not  express  her  sus- 
picion when  they  had  left  the  house  and  passed  through  the 
lane,  where  the  night  shadows  were  increasing  in  spite  of 
the  young  moon. 

Having  passed  the  lane  gate,  Senior  drew  her  arm  through 
his,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  You  didn't  much  believe  about  Junior's  wife,"  said  he  ; 
"  but  she  is  poorly,  and  I  am  going  to  have  a  little  supper 
for  her,  and  I  want  you  to  help  us." 

Randy  half  drew  back. 

"  Have  you  told  them  ?" 

Senior  strode  on  so  resolutely,  she  could  not  but  follow — 
and  a  little  tighter  grasp  of  her  hand  seemed  to  certify  that 
he  was  not  going  to  permit  any  wavering  in  her  dealing  with 
him. 

"  No,"  he  answered  ;  "  whose  concern  is  it  but  yours  and 
mine  ?  I  was  over  to  town  to-day,  and  I  found  a  fine  lot  of 
fresh  oysters.  They'll  relish  with  poor  Jane.  And  what's 
a  good  feast  worth  without  good  company  ?  I  never  was 
the  man  to  sit  down  in  a  corner,  like  Jack  Homer,  and  eat 
my  pie.  What's  the  reason  I've  been  waiting  for  my  wife 


100  PETER    CARRADINE. 

so  long  ?     For  the  time  to  come  round,  and  now   it's   come. 
I'm  able  to  support  her,  and  I  can  begin  to  enjoy  living." 

"  No  one  ever  thinks  that  Senior  Jobson  hasn't  come  to 
that  yet.  He  looks  as  he  enjoyed  life." 

"  What  folks  think  isn't  the  rule  I've  lived  by,  Randy. 
Mind  that.  I  ain't  a  man  to  stand  peering  into  my  neigh- 
bor's face,  or  trying  to  learn  \vhat  rule  he's  going  to  judge 
me  by.  Let  every  man  judge  himself.  There  won't  be  the 
devil  to  pay  so  often." 

"  That's  what  I  think." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  and  I  expect  the  man  above  will  bring 
it  out  all  right,  about.  I  don't  see  why  the  expectation 
isn't  honoring  of  him  as  much  as  this  setting  to  and  praying, 
you  know  how  they  do't ;  you've  been  brought  up  in  the 
midst  of  it.  And  I'm  told  they're  to  have  a  camp-meeting, 
now,  over  to  the  hemlock  woods." 

"  Yes,"  said  Randy,  ."  they  are  !  Did  you  go  to  the 
preaching  to-day,  Senior  ?" 

He  laughed  at  the  question.  "  Why,  when  d'ye  remem- 
ber to  have  seen  that  sight  ?  I  was  meditating  about  the 
new  building  all  the  morning.  I  can't  keep  it  out  of  my 
mind  night  or  day.  But  in  the  afternoon  I  had  a  congrega- 
tion of  my  own,  and  the  preaching  was  brought  over  ;  and 
1  preached,  and  damn  me,  but  they  said  I  had  the  best  of  it. 
They  said  I  was  spiled  for  a  tavern  keeper.  It  was  in  my 
mind  once  to  preach  !  I  never  told  that  'afore  to  living 
man  or  woman.  It's  a  cross  atween  the  worst  and  the  best, 
I've  made  up  my  mind,  that  takes  to  preaching.  I  mean 
the  preaching  that's  worth  paying  for.  I  don't  disbelieve 
in  preaching,  mind  ye.  A  good  round  sermon's  to  my  mind. 
But  I  know  pretty  much  all  the  fellows  can  say  ;  and  it's 
ninety-nine  times  out  of  every  hundred  you  hear  what's  got 
no  more  life  in  it  than — than  saw-dust.  If  a  man  preaches 
to  me,  I  want  him  to  show  first  that  he's  a  human  being.  I 
want  him  to  show  that,  added  on  to  what  /know  's  in  natur 
is  something  else  I  don't  know,  that  he's  got  hold  of,  some- 
how, and  is  just  as  true.  That's  the  kind  of  preaching  I 
want — and  don't  get." 

This  was  the  sum  of  the  address  Senior  had  delivered  in 
his  bar-room  that  afternoon,  with  great  applause.  But  his 
vehemence  was  now  considerably  abated,  and  his  whole 


THE    GATHERING.  101 

manner  softened,  having  for  his  audience  a  solitary  woman, 
and  that  woman  Miranda. 

"  It's  the  kind  of  preaching  Mr.  Collamer  gave  us  this 
morning,"  said  she,  and  there  was  not  a  word  of  his  utter- 
ance but  she  would  remember,  so  that  when  she  spoke  of 
Senior  to  her  father  she  might  encourage  him  to  hope  great- 
ly in  behalf  of  the  innkeeper. 
"  Gave  us"  thought  Senior. 

"  You  won't  be  going  up  to  that  camp-meeting,  I  hope," 
said  he.  It  was  to  preface  for  the  question  that  he  had  in- 
troduced this  conversation. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  promised  father  I  would." 
"  Next  thing  you'll  be  getting  religion." 
"  Do  you  think  it's  likely?" 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it's  likely  or  not.  But  you've 
promised  yourself  to  me.  And  what  I've  bargained  for  I 
want,  mind  that  Handy.  Don't  go  and  spoil  yourself  with 
them  folks.  They're  not  our  kind.  It's  good  enough  for 
them.  It  helps  'em  on,  poor  critters.  They  say  it  does, 
and  I  really  think  they  gain  by  it.  But  you're  a  good,  hon- 
est, free-living  and  free-spoken  woman — and  your  heart, 
that's  what  you  give  to  me  ! — And  you're  free  to  tell  that 
to  any  one  who's  prying  about  and  wanting  to  change  it." 

"  You  needn't  fear  for  me,  Senior,"  answered  Handy.  "I 
used  to  think  different,  but  now  I've  changed  my  mind  about 
it ;  I  believe  you're  in  the  rights  of  it.  All  the  praying  I 
ever  did  yet  hasn't  varied  my  experience  one  whit,  as  I  can 
see.  It's  good  for  some,  but  not  for  me.  They  say  it's  be- 
cause I  don't  believe  enough." 

"  Seeing's  believing,"  answered  he.  "  But,  Randy,  I 
don't  want  you  to  go  to  that  meeting." 

"  Senior  Jobson,  father  is  getting  to  be  an  old  man,  and 
he's  infirmer  all  the  time.  He  said  this  afternoon,  says  he, 
'  it  isn't  likely  you  and  me  will  ever  have  the  chance  to  go 
again  together  to  camp-meeting,'  and  he's  set  his  heart  on 
my  going.  Now,  what'll  you  have  me  do  ]" 

"  Why  go  !"  said  Senior.  "  I  might  resk  the  harm,  I 
guess,"  and  he  laughed  through  the  mild-spoken  words,  for 
Randy's  speech,  when  she  was  thoroughly  roused,  never 
failed  to  charm  him — he  felt  bewitched  by  the  danger  of 
playing  with  edged  tools. 

"  Yes  "  she  answered,  still  speaking   with   spirit,  "  you 


102  PETER    CARRADINE. 

might !  And  if  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  Lira  to  have  mo 
converted,  I  do'know  but  I'd  be  willing  ;  and  if  it  didn't  do 
more  for  me  than  it  does  for  many,  you  wouldn't  receive  no 
damage  !  nor — the  Spread  Eagle  either  !" 

"  It's  lucky  we're  right  here  under  the  wings  of  the  bird 
o'  freedom,"  said  Senior,  with  unabated  good  humor,  though 
he  had  lost  a  point.  "  You  and  1  might  get  into  a  snug 
quarrel.  Bat  I  ain't  the  man  to  badger  a  woman.  You  go 
to  the  camp-meeting.  I  can  trust  the  woman  I  want  for  a 
wife." 

With  these  sentiments  passing  from  his  voice  into  her 
heart,  Miranda  followed  Senior  Jobson  into  the  blacksmith's 
kitchen. 


It  was  not  late  when  the  supper  party  broke  up.  When 
Randy  came  home  she  was  surprised  to  find  her  father  sit- 
ting before  the  fire  he  had  kindled — neither  reading  nor 
singing,  but  wide  awake  ;  and,  as  his  first  words  showed,  he 
was  gladder  at  her  return  than  he  had  been  troubled  about 
her  ab.sence. 

"  Daughter  !  the  Lord  be  praised  !'' 

"  Amen,  father,"  answered  Eandy,  and  she  sat  down  be- 
side him  on  the  hearth.  "  Have  I  been  long  gone  ?" 

"  It  might  be.     But  how's  neighbor  Jobson?" 

"  Comfortable.  Better  than  she  was.  It's  the  children 
that  weighs  her  down  so,  poor  thing.  I  told  Junior  that 
maybe  it  might  happen  I'd  have  them  up  here  off  and  on,  by 
turns — it  wouldn't  be  only  a  neighborly  turn — and  their 
keep  wouldn't  be  anything  to  mention.  I  could  take  care 
of  them." 

Father  Roy  said  : 

"  So  you  could,  if  any  one.  It's  the  Lord  put  that  kind- 
ness in  't  yer  heart,  Randy.  I'm  sure  I'm  agreeable,  after 
the  camp-meeting." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  was  thinking — after  the  camp-meet- 
ing." 

"  Daughter,  Peter  Carradine  dropped  in  just  after  ye 
left ;  had  ye  got  out  o'  the  lane  ?  Did  ye  meet  Peter  ?" 

"  Peter  Carradine  been  here  !  what  for  ?"  exclaimed  Ran- 
dy, and  her  voice  was  harder  than  in  its  last  speaking. 
"  That  was  a  leading  !" 


THE    GATHERING.  103 

The  poor  old  man  seemed  to  be  taken  aback  by  these 
words,  as  if  he  had  not  expected  them.  Indeed,  during  the 
last  half  hour,  in  the  warmth  of  the  glowing  fire  and  the 
calm  of  the  Sunday  evening,  he  had  only  thought  over  the 
pleasant  points  of  the  visit,  and  had  almost  forgotten  what 
he  desired  to  keep  out  of  mind. 

"  He's  wanting  to  see  Randy,"  said  he,  in  a  conciliatory 
way ;  "  he  asked  after  you  ;  and  said  'twas  only  on  tl  e 
school-keeping  question  he  had  any  difficulty  wilh  you." 

"  He  did  !" 

"  But  he  was  down  on  business." 

"Talking  business  of  a  Sunday.     Why,  father  !" 

"  I  know — I  know,"  said  the  old  man,  "  it  ain't  the  right 
thing,  Randy.  But  he  just  talked  it,  and  I  couldn't  help." 

"  Because  it  was  Peter  Carradine.  Happen  it  had  been 
Senior  Jobson,  couldn't  you  have  helped  it  ?  I  don't  mind, 
but  is't  fair  to  be  so  easy  with  one,  and  so  hard  on  the 
other  V 

"  He  wants  to  buy  the  medder  land  'yond  the  br.ook — he 
says  it's  for  grazing — and  would  accommodate  him  great — 
and  certin  it's  far  off  for  an  old  man  like  me  to  labor  in." 

"  It's  cutting  up  the  farm  so,  piece  by  piece,  will  make 
no  farm  at  all,"  said  Randy,  not  in  the  least  pleased  by  the 
proposition.  Clear  enough,  her  father  was  growing  old  ;  he 
needed  a  good  adviser  and  a  good  manager.  She  thought  of 
Senior  and  was  glad.  But.  the  old  man  had  not  finished  his 
report  of  th^bisit. 

"  It's  a  big^rice,  though,  he  offers.  It's  fifty  dollars  to 
the  acre,  Randy.  I  never  heerd  the  like  in  my  time.  Fifty 
dollars  for  that  six  acre  lot !  d'ye  see  ?  It  jest  wipes  off 
that  nio'gage,  Randy," 

This  announcement  startled  her.  It  was  a  long  time  be- 
fore she  answered  ;  at  last  her  steady  gaze  was  averted  from 
the  dying  firelight,  she  looked  at  her  father. 

"  Does  it  suit  you  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  don't  own  the  farm  ; 
I  didn't  earn  it  by  money  down,  and  work  at  clearing,  years 
and  years.  Do  you  want  to  sell  it  ?  It's  the  lot  that  looks 
so  pretty  from  the  lane,  with  the  willows  'long  the  border. 
We  planted  them  years  ago — and  how  fast  they  did  grow — 
every  one  of  them  living  to  this  hour." 

She  knew  what  recollections  were  connected  with  that 
planting.  And  she  knew  how  dear  that  lot  was  to  her  fa- 


104  PETER   CARRADINE. 

tlier.  No  portion  of  his  farm  bat  he  would  Lave  chosen  to 
part  with  sooner. 

"  Why  couldn't  he  have  asked  for  the  land  long-side  the 
road— easier  to  get  at,  and  better  ?  He  knew  the  store  you 
set  by  the  lot,  and  if  he  was  meaning  to  do  a  kind  thing,  of 
course  he'd  spoil  it  before  he  got  through." 

"Don't  say  it,  daughter,  don't  say  it.  He  meant  it 
kind." 

"  If  you  wanted,  though,  to  keep  the  lot,  I'm  free  to  be- 
Here  'twould  all  come  round  right  yet.  I  don't  want  his 
favors.  There's  ways  to  get  out  of  debt  to  him  without  hU 
help.  And  if  there  is,  wouldn't  you  choose  to  be  beholden 
to  some  other  man  ?" 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  agin  Randy's  wish,"  he  acknow- 
ledged. "  I  told  him  I  couldn't  answer  for  't ;  I  must  see 
my  daughter.  Peace  is  better  than  lands,  and  good  will  is 
better  than  money.  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  agin  your  wish. 
It'a  what  I  said  to  him.  It's  what  I'd  say  to  any  man  as 
came  to  talk  of  buying.  She  is  young  and  I  am  old,  and  she 
will  live  the  longest."  So  the  old  man  put  away  the  tempt- 
ation of  fifty  dollars  an  acre,  with  the  feeling  of  one  who  has 
wasted  Sabbath  hours  and  paid  the  penalty. 

He  now  raked  out  the  embers,  and  covered  the  handful 
of  fire  in  the  corner  of  the  great  chimney — he  had  kindled 
it  there  instead  of  in  the  stove  that  stood  on  the  hearth ; 
he  wanted  the  cheerful  light,  but  it  had  served  him  poorly  ; 
it  had  gone  out  now  as  utterly  as  the  dream  frun  which  his 
daughter  had  wakened  him.  Bandy  noticeoKat  his  face 
had  lost  the  really  happy  expression  it  wore  when  she  came 
home.  How  old  he  looked,  how  gray,  and  grave,  and  fee- 
ble ! 

"  You  can  think  it  over,''  said  she,  trying  to  relent  some- 
what ;  "  maybe  you  will  have  a  dream — maybe  we  shall 
both  have — but— I  don't  believe  it  will  encourage  our  deal- 
ing with  Peter  Carradine." 

"  Well — well— but  don't  be  hard  on  him  !  We're  all 
sinners,  Bandy.  We're  all  sinners."  He  touched  on  this 
ground  with  a  spring,  as  one  might  who  felt  the  firm  shore 
rock  under  his  feet  again,  after  having  lost  his  ground.  He 
had  come  back  now  to  texts,  and  hymns,  and  prayers,  and 
with  these  he  closed  the  evening. 

It  was  late  in  the  night  when   Bandy   fell   asleep.      She 


THE     GATHERING.  1 05 

had  so  many  things  to  think  of  that  must  be  mused  over  in 
silence  and  in  darkness  But  prominent  among  all  these 
thoughts  of  the  Spread  Eagle,  and  of  Senior,  and  of  the 
camp-meeting,  was  this,  that  Mr.  Carradine  was  trying  to 
make  peace,  and  that  without  his  aid  in  devising,  she  had 
found  a  method  of  her  own  for  paying  the  debt  that  weighed 
so  heavily  on  her  father's  mind. 

The  reader  is  wondering  if  Bandy's  lover  stood  before 
Randy's  eyes  as  merely  the  satisfaction  of  debt  ?  If  her 
brain  in  its  calculations,  by  no  means  her  heart  in  its  aspir- 
ing, felt  the  influence  of  his  life  ? 


5* 


106  PETER     CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN    THE    WOODS. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  camp-meeting  had  become  a  fact  in 
the  woods,  Mrs.  Johnson  prepared  for  her  second  attendance, 
and  this  time  Miss  Fuller  was  to  accompany  her,  with  John- 
son and  Harry. 

Elder  Green  brought  Mary  up  to  the  red  farm-house  in  his 
carriage,  and  she  sat  on  the  front  seat  of  that  remarkable- 
looking  vehicle  with  the  Elder  and  Sally,  while  under  the 
cover,  on  the  back  seat,  were  Esther  and  her  daughter-in- 
law,  Huldah. 

Mr.  Johnson's  team  was  already  harnessed,  and  the  horses 
tied  to  the  post  in  front  of  the  lane,  for  these  were  not  the 
hard-worked  farm  cattle,  but  the  "  kindest"  fancy  horses  on 
the  place,  large  and  handsome,  and  of  fine  cream  color. 

Johnson's  heavy  black  broadcloth  coat  lay  oil  the  seat  he 
was  to  occupy — he  intended  to  carry  the  garment  on  his  arm 
after  their  arrival  on  the  ground,  but  any  further  use  of  a 
coat  on  such  a  day  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  unless  the  ladies 
should  insist. 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  dressed  in  her  black  silk  gown,  her 
best  dress  these  ten  years,  turned  and  made  new  last  fall, 
and  she  looked  as  solemn  as  became  the  happy  occasion. 
The  six  short  curls  of  fine  red  hair,  three  of  which  adorned 
either  temple,  were  all  in  place  ;  the  purple  gauze  cap-strings 
were  tied  squarely  and  unrumpled  ;  she  had  on  her  new 
thread  gloves — she  was  in  her  happiest  mood.  The  gloves 
were  of  a  lilac  color,  and  had  worn  her  two  summers  al- 
ready. They  cost  her  three  and  sixpence  in  the  town.  She 
had  her  hymn  book  wrapped  in  her  white  handkerchief. 


IN  THE  WOODS.  107 

Staid  and  comely  Mrs.  Johnson,  what  a  day  will  this  be  to 
you  !  How  will  you  and  your  sister  Green  enjoy  this  pre- 
cious season  in  the  woods  ! 

"  I  want  to  go — I  want  to  go — /  want,  to  go — there — 
too  !" 

Little  Harry  was  to  sit  beside  his  father.  Happy  and  ex- 
pectant little  fellow,  dressed  also  in  his  best — in  blue  cloth 
coat  with  the  brass  buttons,  each  embellished  with  the 
"  spread  eagle,"  no  relation  to  the  tavern  stand  of  Martin- 
dale,  I  testify — are  you  not  an  heir  of  freedom,  a  representa- 
tive man,  my  boy  !  And  he  has  on  his  cloth  cap,  with  the 
long  "  taussel,"  that  dangles  at  the  side  ;  it  is  a  blue  cloth 
cap  ;  long  they  hesitated  between  the  blue  and  brown,  but 
the  brown  spots  and  fades — and  a  cap  is  a  cap,  my  son,  and 
this  head-piece  cost  two  bushels  of  wheat.  His  collar  is 
broad  and  white,  and  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon. 

The  ribbon  was  the  only  bit  of  finery  and  pride  in  which 
the  heart  of  Mrs.  Johnson  indulged  itself  that  day.  It 
sometimes  filled  this  mother's  heart  with  trouble  when  she 
questioned  of  herself  whether,  in  truth,  she  had  renounced 
the  world  ;  yes,  sometimes  she  even  asked  herself  how  she 
could  renounce  it  when  her  boy  was  here  to  live  in  it  as  a 
man.  Not  really  the  worst  boy  in  the  world  ;  and  to  her  the 
most  precious.  And  now  she  had  her  doubts,  when  Harry 
stood  before  her  so  radiant  and  blooming.  Once  after  she 
had  fairly  taken  her  seat,  and  that  preparation  was  off  her 
husband's  mind,  for  he  never  would  untie  those  horses  until 
everything  and  everybody  was  in  its  place,  she  disconcerted 
the  whole  party  by  getting  up  suddenly,  as  if  she  had  forgotten 
something.  But  she  sat  down  again  as  hastily,  with  a  red 
face,  much  disturbed,  though  she  said  nothing. 

Finally,  when  it  seemed  that  Johnson's  arrangements  were 
all  completed  and  there  yet  remained  a  moment,  she  turned 
to  Mercy  and  said  : 

"  Ain't  the  blue  ribbon  out  of  place,  Miss  Fuller  1" 

"  Too  gay  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Mercy,  her  eyes  follow- 
ing the  mother's  anxious  glance,  and  quickly  divining  her 
thought. 

"  Yes — speak  quick.     I  can  get  out  and  change  it  yet." 

"Do  you  suppose,"  said  Mercy,  "  that  the  birds  have  gone 
into  mourning  because  there's  a  religious  meeting  under  the 
trees  where  their  nests  are  ?" 


108  PETER   CAKRADJNK. 

Apparently  satisfied  with  this  assurance,  Mrs.  Johnson 
smoothed  her  dress,  folded  her  hands  and  smiled.  She 
might  enjoy  the  ribbon,  and  the  boy  who  wore  it,  to  her 
heart's  content. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Mercy,  "you  will  be  thanking  God,  in 
spite  of  yourself,  more  than  for  anything  else,  for  this  blue- 
bird of  yours." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  I  gave  him  to  God  long  ago  1"  said  the 
mother,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I'm  sure  I  did.  It's  treasure 
lent,  Miss  Fuller." 

Mercy  Fuller  sat  beside  Mr.  Johnson,  with  Mr.  Carra- 
dine's  new  hymn  book  in  her  hand.  He  brought  it  to  her  at 
the  last  moment,  after  she  was  seated  in  the  carriage,  and 
hoped  she  would  make  herself  comfortable.  But  he  shook 
his  head  when  she  said  he  had  best  go  with  them.  Mrs. 
Johnson  urged  the  invitation,  but  he  altogether  declined  it. 
Nevertheless,  when  he  went  back  to  the  porch  he  was 
amazed  to  think  that  he  had  done  so. 

Long  after  he  had  lost  sight  of  the  wagon,  and  the  rumble 
of  the  wheels  had  died  away,  he  mused  over  that  pleasant 
thought,  so  new  to  him  !  A  young  face  to  look  kindly  on 
him  !  a  young  voice  to  express  such  a  wish  as  she  had  just 
expressed  !  It  had  not  been  for  nothing. 

Yet  he  thought  this  over  in  such  an  exaggerating  mood 
that,  unavoidably,  he  was  compelled  to  call  himself  to  ac- 
count at  last.  He  did  it  with  impatience.  On  what,  after 
all,  was  he  reckoning  so  fast  ?  She  had  merely  spoken  to 
him  a  few  civil  words  ;  Miranda  would  have  said  as  much, 
and  more.  That  thought  brought  him  to  his  feet,  and  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  piazza.  At  length  the  sum  of  his 
meditations  escaping  him,  he  caught  up  his  hat  and  went  off 
towards  his  barns.  But  the  exposure  had  been  merely  to 
himself — and  yet  to  himself! 

"  They're  no  more  alike,  those  two,  than  if  they  were 
made  up  of  different  flesh  and  blood.  One  is  a  crab-apple, 
the  other  a  peach.  I'm  glad  I've  seen  her.  I  take  it  for  a 
Providence  that  she  is  living  in  Martindale  this  summer. 
If  those  children  don't  learn  from  her  teaching  !  I  could 
learn  myself.  Never  too  old,  they  say.  It  isn't  all  writ  in 
the  book  that  folks  have  to  learn." 


IN  THE  WOODS.  109 

It  was  just  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Johnson 
cracked  his  whip,  and  the  horses  started  off  on  their  vigor- 
ous trot.  It  was  the  hour  which  he  had  secretly  proposed 
to  himself  for  leaving  the  farm-house,  and  he  calculated  that 
by  eleven  they  should  reach  the  camping-groond. 

Their  road  lay  through  a  beautiful  farming  country,  which 
seemed  alive  and  active,  for  every  cross-road  was  sending 
out  its  deputation,  and  along  the  main  roads  hundreds  of 
carriages  were  passing  that  morning  in  the  direction  of 
Hickie's  corners. 

Of  our  party,  Mrs.  Johnson's  thoughts,  never  communica- 
ted with  perfect  freedom  or  confidence,  were  to-day  subject 
to  an  unusually  severe  supervision.  She  would  fain  restrain 
all  wandering  tendencies.  Had  she  not  her  burden  to  bear, 
and  to  watch  over  ?  The  woman  was  all  a  wife  to-day,  a 
praying,  anxious  wife. 

Johnson,  therefore,  never  taking  kindly  to  meditative 
moods,  and  liable  to  suspect  that  things  were  not  going  on 
pleasantly  if,  in  a  company  of  two  or  more,  silence  exceed- 
ed speech,  felt  moved  to  talk — and  the  subject  on  which  he 
was  best  prepared  to  speak  was  the  condition  of  the  lands 
through  which  they  were  passing,  the  owners  thereof,  etc. 
A  train  of  observations  to  which  his  wife  desired  not  to 
yield,  from  which  she  would  fain  have  withdrawn  her  hus- 
band's mind.  He  was  too  much  taken  up  with  such  things. 
And  she  hoped  so  much  from  this  day's  privileges  in  his 
behalf. 

If  he  must  talk  about  persons,  though,  let  it  be  about 
ministers  !  Thus  she  led  the  way,  and  Johnson  was  content 
if  she  would  only  speak.  The  theme  was  sacred  to  her 
mind. 

Thus  they  came  near  the  camping-ground. 

As  they  drove  across  the  hills  and  approached  Hickie's 
corners,  a  scene  spread  out  before  them  of  exceeding 
beauty,  once  viewed  never  to  be  forgotten. 

It  was  a  broad  valley,  through  which  ran  a  river,  so  the 
stream  was  called  ;  a  stream  nearly  dried  at  this  season, — 
but  in  the  spring  and  fall,  for  weeks  together,  its  bed  was 
full  of  waters.  The  fields,  beautiful  in  their  varied  early 
verdure,  spread  up  ihe  hill-sides  at  either  hand ;  here  and 
there  were  parcels  of  forest  land,  and  all  through  the  mea- 


110  i'ETER     CARRADINE. 

dows,  as  in  Martindale,  but  on  a  broader  scale,  traces  of 
the  ancient  wilderness  remained. 

The  wheat  fields,  and  fields  of  rye  and  corn,  made  Mr. 
Johnson  smile  ;  the  market  would  demand  all  that  the  coun- 
try could  produce  ;  he  would  not  be  afraid  to  have  his  crops 
compared  with  the  finest  of  these.  They  did  not  pass  down 
through  this  fine  valley,  but,  turning  to  the  left,  made  a  de- 
scent of  half  the  hill,  as  far  as  John  Hickie's  place,  where 
Johnson  was  to  leave  his  horses. 

The  party  alighted  in  the  lane,  and  while  Johnson  went 
to  secure  place  for  his  horses,  his  wife  and  Mercy,  leading 
Harry  between  them,  went  into  the  field  through  which  the 
people  passed  to  the  camping-ground. 

The  field  was  lined  with  wagons  and  vehicles  of  every 
description  ;  two  thousand  persons,  it  was  said,  had  already 
assembled,  and  from  the  way  in  which  they  were  now  flock- 
ing in,  the  conductors  confidently  prophesied  an  attendance 
of  from  eight  to  ten  thousand  before  the  end  of  the  week  ; 
everybody  was  rejoicing  by  anticipation.  As  it  was,  two 
thousand  souls  gathered  in  one  place,  for  worship  and  in- 
struction, seemed  no  light  matter,  and  many  walked  about  as 
if  under  the  solemnity  of  this  conviction,  bearing  it  as  a 
weight. 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  full  of  concern,  as  I  have  said.  She 
carried  Johnson  on  her  heart  that  day.  She  said  to  Mercy, 
while  they  stood  awaiting  for  him  : 

"  It's  said  that  precious  young  man,  Mr.  Collamer, 
preaches  this  afternoon.  I'm  laying  up  a  hope  by  him. 
There's  one  wife'll  be  prayin'  an'  hopin'.  D'ye  think  t'll 
rain  afore  night  ?" 

"Rain,  mother  !"  exclaimed  her  husband,  coming  up  be- 
hind her  and  touching  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder.  ''  Come 
away."  And  so  they  went  to  the  wood. 

Dame  Johnson  was  not  startled  by  her  husband's  sudden 
reply  to  her  strange  question.  She  had  been  startled  the 
moment  before,  however,  when  his  appearance  suddenly 
checked  her  confidences.  If  anything,  her  husband's  cheer- 
ful speech  increased  the  shadow  of  her  face.  Not  because 
the  voice  was  cheerful ;  but  at  an  unlucky  moment  he  had 
recalled  an  unhappy  thought.  Johnson  was  eight  years 
younger  than  his  wife  ;  and  this  discrepancy  between  them 
had  of  late  been  growing  into  a  disagreeable  prominence. 


IN  THE  WOODS.  Ill 

Johnson's  wife  had  reason  to  think  that  there  was  too  much 
meaning  in  the  "  old  woman"  of  her  spouse.  Since  she  lost 
her  front  teeth  she  was  even  less  a  beauty  than  before.  She 
was  no  longer  in  her  prime.  True,  she  gave  no  evidence  of 
this  in  any  inability  to  labor  ;  she  was  strong  and  quick  as 
ever  ;  she  had  lost  no  "  knack"  or  skill.  Often  she  was  re- 
minding herself  of  these  facts.  Alas,  it  was  only  in  her 
heart  that  the  assurance  was  lodged— vain  to  seek  the  outward 
evidence.  No  other  soul  could  see  it  well  as  she  !  Perhaps 
it  was  unguessed  of  every  mortal  except  herself.  Tall, 
strong,  capable  woman,  her  life  was  bound  up  in  that  little 
youngish  man,  and  she  was  going  into  this  forest  church  with 
him,  praying  that  the  Lord  would  take  him  to  himself  this 
day,  before  he  should  give  himself  away  forever  to  the  devil. 
She  was  not  the  only  soul  that  hurried  into  the  place  resound- 
ing with  praises  and  prayers,  with  cries  of  beseeching,  the 
Hosannah,  and  the  rejoicing  "  Hallelujah  !"  crying  out  of 
human  sorrow's  depths,  "  Oh,  Lord,  send  salvation  1"  "  Oh 
Jesus,  come  down  now  !" 

As  they  came  into  the  enclosure,  they  found  that  the  min- 
isters were  descending  from  the  rude  stand  they  occupied; 
the  congregation  was  breaking  up  ;  morning  service  was 
concluded. 

The  accommodations  of  the  place  were  those  usually  pre- 
pared on  such  occasions  ;  we  will  walk  about  with  Johnson 
and  his  wife,  and  show  them  to  Miss  Fuller. 

Cabins,  boarded  or  covered  with  white  cloth,  and  called 
tents  by  that  token,  defined  the  limits  of  the  ground,  and  in 
these  we  discover  all  the  comforts  deemed  needful  for  a 
week's  life  in  the  woods.  Abundant  straw  is  spread  over 
the  ground,  a  matting  for  the  feet,  or  a  bed,  as  you  may  take 
it ;  beyond  you  will  find  a  rag  carpet,  bedsteads  put  up, 
kitchen  utensils  hanging  on  the  posts  and  rafters.  Every- 
where, in  the  rear  of  each  cabin,  a  cook-stove.  These  stumps 
of  trees  are  turned  to  use  as  candlesticks — here,  by  night, 

«/  D          * 

you  shall  see  flaming  torches  casting  a  strange  light  on  the 
magnificent  old  hemlocks.  Night  and  day,  the  work  of 
prayer,  and  song,  and  conference,  and  exhortation,  is  going 
on.  The  people  are  here  for  a  purpose — and  unanimity  of 
purpose  among  two  thousand  persons  is  producing  a  result. 
It  is  getting  to  be  a  serious  question  what  is  to  be  done  with 
this  great  congregation,  hourly  increasing.  Whether  other 


112  I'KTUK    <  AURADINE. 

tents  shall  mark  out  auother  ground,  and  another  platform  be 
put  up  for  preachers,  and  other  rough  board  seats  be  placed 
for  audiences.  The  enthusiastic  say  a  dozen  separate 
churches  on  the  ground  would  not  be  one  too  many.  The 
more  cautious  fear  the  result  of  attempting  to  draw  off  inter- 
est from  the  first  point  of  effort. 

Our  friends  hear  these  discussions  as  they  walk  about  and 
urvey.  They  incline  to  different  opinions — and  the  general 
i  npression  is,  that  wherever  Mr.  Collamer  stations  himself, 
there  will  the  mass  of  the  people  be,  for  the  young  preacher, 
it  almost  seems,  is  the  life,  the  soul  of  the  meeting.  John- 
son, who  feels  strange  and  out  of  place  among  so  many  peo- 
ple, would  be  glad  to  get  away  into  some  quiet  corner — he 
thinks  the  congregation  quite  too  large.  But  if  there  should 
be  a  division  among  them,  Mrs.  Johnson  thinks  there  might 
somewhere  be  a  word  said  which  Johnson  might  miss,  to  his 
endless  hurt.  He  could  not  be  in  all  places  at  one  time. 
But,  at  least,  he  should  be  in  the  company  where  Mr.  Col- 
lamer  was,  on  this  she  had  decided. 

So  cogitating,  they  went  through  the  circuit,  at  one  point 
passing  by  a  cot-bed  containing  an  invalid  woman,  bed-rid 
these  many  years,  brought  hither  for  no  miracle-working, 
but  to  renew  the  blissful  memories  of  some  youthful  season, 
a  picture  painted  in  celestial  colors — she  is  getting  her  fore- 
taste of  Heaven.  She  will  carry  back  to  her  lonely  room 
what  visions  of  seraphic  faces,  and  voices  celestial !  Des- 
pise not  thou  her  image,  as  she  lies  there  among  her  gross 
surroundings  ;  passing  by  with  wonder,  let  not  the  exposure 
fill  you  with  disgust.  In  all  her  weary  years  of  isolation  and 
of  pain,  no  glory,  no  beauty  like  this,  of  the  unanimous  con- 
gregation ;  and  the  magnificent  hemlocks,  the  pretty  faces, 
and  the  stalwart  frames,  and  the  rugged,  gnarled  and  knotted 
figures,  bent,  distorted  by  toil,  are  forming  a  great  picture 
gallery  she  shall  be  able  to  revisit  henceforth,  long  as  she 
lives. 

She  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mercy's  face  as  they  were  pass- 
ing by  ;  it  was  a  fair  face  she  saw,  and  she  desired  another 
view — so  she  coughed  and  groaned,  and  Mercy  turned  her 
head,  and  seeing  that  infirmity  had  come  to  the  camp-meet- 
ing, she  advanced  to  the  ground  whereon  all  stand  as  equals, 
and  said  : 

"  Sister,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here." 


IN  THE  WOODS.  113 

"Praise  the  Lord!  Praise  the  Lord  !"  was  the  answer, 
loud  and  clear.  "  He  maketh  the  dumb  to  speak  and  the 
lame  to  walk,  and  the  poor  have  the  Gospel  preached  !" 

"May  He  make  all  thy  bed  in  thy  sickness,"  answered. 
Mercy. 

"  Don't  He  !  Don't  He  !  Couldn't  He  say,  '  Mary  Jane, 
rise  up  an'  walk,'  though  she's  been  bed-rid  these  years — 
it's  twelve  year,  ma'm,  come  the  fourth  day  of  July.  Don't 
He  hear  ?  Don't  He  see  ?  And  if  He's  willing  can't  I  bear 
it  ?— -Oh,  yes  !  Oh  yes  !  Glory  !  Glory  !" 

A  number  of  people,  attracted  by  the  loud  voice  and  the 
shouting,  crowded  around  the  door  of  the  tent,  close  beside 
which  stood  the  cot-bed,  and  Johnson  edging  off  by  degrees, 
drew  the  women  after  him. 

"  Oh,  what  fun  !'  exclaimed  little  Harry,  in  great  glee. 
Past  women  nursing  infants,  washing  children's  faces — read- 
ing silently — gossiping  around  the  stoves — praying  in  secret 
— the  secresy  of  silence,  Johnson  looked  at  his  boy  and 
seemed  to  be  in  doubt  as  to  whether  a  smile  were  quite  the 
proper  thing — a  glance  at  his  wife's  face  might  have  enlight- 
ened him — but  since  they  came  upon  the  ground,  somehow, 
his  wife's  countenance  was  not  the  index  that  he  desired  to 
search.  He  was  loth  to  surrender  himself  to  her  influence 
this  day.  He  had,  in  fact,  the  conviction  that  her  purpose 
was  to  "  bring  him  in,"  and  all  the  resistance  he  could  offer 
was  forthcoming  in  such  peril. 

The  morning's  sermon  had  produced  a  decided  effect  ; 
powerful  in  some  instances  to  cloud  reason  and  control  sense. 
Here  and  there  were  groups  of  saintly  persons  gathered 
about  some  sister  or  brother  who  was  being  raised  from  the 
depths  of  despair  to  the  life  and  triumph  of  an  assured  hope. 
The  contagion  was  fast  spreading. 

In  the  midst  of  one  of  those  groups,  knelt  two  young  con- 
verts with  their  arms  around  each  other  ;  they  were  Sally 
Green  and  Miranda  Roy.  Sally  had  sought  her  friend  on 
her  return,  and  "  found  her,"  as  when  Sally  left  her  on  the 
ground  last  night,  poor  Randy  had  prophesied  that  she  would 
find  her,  if  alive  "in  the  Lord." 

Mr.  Collamer  rose  up  from  the  midst  of  this  group  as 
our  friends  drew  nearer,  and  announced  that  the  time  ap- 
pointed for  the  prayer-meeting  in  the  Martindale  tent  had 
now  arrived  ;  and  himself  led  the  way  to  that  enclosure. 


114  PETER   CARRADINE. 

When  he  saw  Johnson  and  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  Miss  Fuller, 
his  face  lighted  up  with  an  expression  of  real  pleasure.  He 
shook  hands  with  them,  one  by  one,  and  taking  Harry  up  in 
his  arms,  said  that  he  was  none  too  young  to  come  to  camp- 
meeting,  and  enjoy  the  kingdom  of  Heaven. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  you  will  all  come  to  the  Martin- 
dale  tent.  Come  !  there  is  room  for  all."  And  he  went  on, 
carrying  Harry  in  his  arms,  who,  between  the  pride  of  the 
moment  and  his  natural  diffidence,  looked  down  somewhat 
sheepishly  from  his  elevation. 

Two  or  three  benches  were  ranged  side  by  side  at  one  end 
of  this  tent — at  the  other  end  was  a  trunk,  a  pile  of  bed- 
quilts,  and  several  feather  pillows,  for  the  use  of  such  as 
should  come  within  the  circle. 

Space  was  immediately  made  for  Mr.  Collamer  and  the 
party  following  him.  The  persons  gathered  had  only  waited 
for  him — he  had  promised  to  join  them,  and  although  the 
services  were  to  be  conducted  in  a  manner  entirely  informal, 
still  the  promise  of  his  coming  was  sufficient  to  give  the 
prospect  of  the  meeting  another  coloring  from  what  it  would 
have  had  void  of  such  expectation.  A  hymn  was  given  out, 
in  singing  which  all  joined.  Then  Mr.  Collamer  requested 
one  of  the  brethren  to  lead  in  prayer.  It  was  Samuel  Hoy 
whom  he  selected  for  this  office — notable  for  his  power  in 
the  conduct  of  such  service.  For  this  reason  the  minister 
called  upon  him  ;  it  was  not  any  man's  or  woman's  approval 
of  the  proceedings  he  was  conducting  that  he  desired,  it  was 
the  spiritual  activity  of  mind  and  conscience  in  those  gather- 
ed there  that  he  aimed  at — and  the  plain  earnest  speech  of 
Samuel  could  conduce  to  that  end,  if  any  mere  man's  speech 
could  do  so.  And  not  to  save  Miss  Fuller  a  shock  by  his 
rudest  fervor  of  speech,  would  he  at  this  time  have  selected 
another  man  than  Koy.  He  had  such  faith  in  his  system. 
And  he  believed  it  to  be  merely  a  blandishment  of  the  devil 
that  this  young  woman  could  not  see  through  her  prejudices, 
as  she  had  owned  to  him  she  felt  incapable  of  doing. 

All  unconscious  that  there  was  in  the  world  such  a  thing  as 
criticism,  happily,  strongly  thus  unconscious,  that  of  all  per- 
sons a  critic  had  dared  to  intrude  into  that  tabernacle  in  the 
wilderness,  and  that  this  critic  had  appeared  in  the  person 
of  the  young  lady  he  had  sheltered  through  the  rain  storm 
— the  new  teacher  in  Martindalc — whose  voice  he  had  heard 


IN  THE  WOODS.  115 

last  Sunday  in  the  singing,  and  told  Randy  it  was  a  sweet, 
holy  voice,  this  man  began  his  prayer — kneeling,  as  did  the 
entire  company,  in  the  thick  litter  of  straw — began,  contin- 
ued and  ended  his  supplication.  Not  without  mighty  fervor  ; 
not  without  frequent  bursts  of  approval  in  the  suppliants 
around  him,  who  endorsed  his  petitions  in  their  beginning 
and  ending ;  he,  meanwhile,  increasing  in  fervor,  till  it 
seemed  as  if  the  frail  old  body  in  which  the  pleading  spirit 
was  lodged  would  be  rent  by  his  cries.  It  was  strange  to 
see  his  face  paling,  while  drops  of  perspiration  gathered  on 
his  temples  and  rolled  down  his  thin  cheecks,  which  began 
to  grow  scarlet,  crimson,  while,  with  rolling  of  palms  and 
clapping  of  hands,  the  body  cheered  the  spirit  in  its  upward 
flight. 

Deadness  or  feebleness  of  feeling  was  impossible  after 
this  ;  cold  observation  seemed  a  profanation,  as,  one  after 
another,  women  and  men,  they  took  up  the  strain  of  suppli- 
cation and  responded  with  ecstacy  of  shouts  and  crying. 

When  Mr.  Collamer  saw  the  quiet,  serious  sympathy  ex- 
pressed in  the  face  of  one  woman,  the  fairest  of  the  group, 
he  entertained  a  hope  for  Mercy,  conceived  then  and  there. 

No  wonder  that,  with  the  soul's  upward  pressure,  and  the 
deep  conviction  that,  among  all  these  hundreds  of  people, 
some  might  be  fed  with  living  bread  that  day,  the  minister 
ascended  the  stand  in  a  spirit  that  would  demand  all  his 
power  of  him. 

No  wonder  that  his  sermon  exceeded  anything  that  had 
been  heard  from  the  preacher's  stand  since  the  meeting 
opened.  There  was  no  influence  wanting,  all  things  were 
propitious. 

Mr.  Collamer's  friends  had  long  prophesied  what  his 
career  would  be  ;  but  he  exhibited  powers  in  this  preaching 
of  which  no  one  had  prescience.  Powers  great  enough  to 
enkindle  every  heart  that  heard  him  with  a  fiery  glow  of 
prophetic  impulse. 

He  made  the  woods  alive,  not  only  with  his  voice,  but  wit1! 
many  voices  which  kept  up  a  chorus  throughout  of  solemn 
delight  and  approval. 

For  two  hours  he  preached  on  the  glory  and  love  of  God. 
All  the  pathos  and  poetry  of  which  he  was  master,  all  the 
eloquence  of  entreaty,  all  argument,  he  seemed  to  exhaust  ; 
he  himself  never  before  felt  his  true  power.  And  he  now 


116  PETER   CARRADIXE. 

became  aware  of  it  in  such  a  manner  that  he  would  ever 
after  hold  high  possession  of  his  noblest  self. 

The  congregation  was  in  tears  when  he  ended — that  vast 
concourse  seemed  to  be  moved  by  one  lofty  thought,  one  grand 
sentiment.  And  moved  by  it  they  were — into  transports 
that  seemed  metamorphoses — into  ecstasies  like  revelations. 
The  dead  silence  which  followed  when  he  sat  down,  exhaust- 
ed, and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  was  unbroken  till 
he  arose  again,  clasped  his  hands,  and  said  something  that 
could  not  have  been  heard  half-a-dozen  paces  from  the  stand, 
but  which  bowed  the  heads  of  every  man,  woman  and  child 
before  his  seraphic  presence,  and  before  that  Divinest  power 
which  he  had  invoked.  Then  did  his  prayer  go  forth  for 
them — a  prayer  in  its  beginning  fainter  than  the  sound  of 
the  wind  among  the  trees— fainter  than  the  robin's  chirp 
as  it  sounded  from  a  branch,  but  higher  it  lifted,  fuller 
swelled  the  sound  thereof,  until  above  wind,  breath  and 
bird-song  the  human  voice  did  swell  in  cadences  of  noble 
music. 

Then  the  heart  of  the  assembly  broke  into  sobs  and  sigh- 
ing— and  responsive  Amens,  and  glad  shouts  of  Hallelujah  ! 
and  ever,  stronger  above  all,  arose  the  preacher's  voice,  as 
if  it  would  bear  aloft  all  the  turbulence,  and  it  did  upbear 
until,  in  a  dead  silence,  fell  the  royal  benediction  : 

"  The  peace  that  passeth  all  understanding  keep  your 
hearts  and  minds  in  the  knowledge  and  love  of  God,  and  of 
his  Son,  Jesus  Christ.  And  the  blessing  of  God  Almighty 
the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  rest  upon  and  abide 
with  you  all." 


MIRANDA'S  CHANGING  HEART.  117 


CHAPTER  XL 

MIRANDA 's     CHANGING     IIEAKT. 

AMONG  the  most  rejoicing  within  the  shadows,  the  sacred 
shadows  of  that  grove,  was  the  heart  of  Samuel  Roy  ;  for  his 
daughter  stood  conspicuous  among  the  converts  who  were 
making  the  wood  vocal  with  new  songs.  Now  were  the 
prayers  of  a  lifetime  answered  !  Now  was  the  servant  ready 
to  depart  in  peace,  since  his  eyes  had  seen  his  salvation  ! 

Trained  by  a  loving  intelligence,  a  loving  reverent  acquies- 
cence in  the  Divine  laws  of  life — I  should  this  night  have 
had  this  girl  within  my  happy  knowledge  a  representative  of 
all  that  is  noblest  in  woman.  For  her  heart's  instincts  were 
generous  and  pure — she  was  courageous,  she  was  strong, 
she  was  aspiring  ;  she  would  dare  follow  out  the  truth  as  the 
truth  was  revealed  to  her.  She  dared  to  be  converted  at 
this  camp-meeting  ;  in  spite  of  all  difficulties  and  dissua- 
sive?, dared.  She  was  able  to  think  kindly  of  Miss  Fuller. 
She  made  mention  of  the  name  of  Peter  Carradine  with  cau- 
tion. She  could  pray  for  her  enemies.  Almost  she  could 
say  with  St.  Augustine,  "  How  can  I  be  angry  when  I  re- 
member my  own  experience  ?  Let  him  be  angry  with  you 
who  knoivs  not  ivith  what  difficulty  error  is  shunned  and  truth 
is  gained.  Let  him  be  angry  with  you  who  knows  not  with 
wliat  pain  the  spiritual  light  finds  admission  into  the  dark 
and  diseased  eye.  Let  him  be  angry  with  you  who  knows 
not  ivith  ivhat  tears  and  groans  the  true  knoivledge  of  God 
and  Divine  things  is  received  into  the  bewildered  soul  /" 

In  the  disturbance  through  which  she  had  recently  passed, 
elements  of  character  whose  existence  she  had  not  suspected 
had  been  thrown  into  violent  exposition.  This  revival,  in  its 
stormier  phases,  attracted  Randy's  vehement  nature,  excited 
as  it  now  was  ;  and  there  were  present  causes,  as  well  as  oth- 


118  PETER  CARRADINE. 

ers  more  remote,  that  acted  on  her  with  a  power  she  was  not 
prepared  even  to  fear,  and  much  less  withstand. 

She  went  to  the  camp-meeting  with  her  father,  and  was 
present  during  the  preliminary  services  ;  and  there  they 
had  remained  together,  day  and  night,  from  the  beginning. 
Though  unconscious  of  the  fact,  she  went  there  a  fit  subject 
for  the  operation  of  any  commanding  influence,  not  less  im- 
pressional  because  she  had  given  her  word  to  Senior,  and, 
according  to  her  own  judgment,  stood  in  "  no  danger"  of 
the  "  religious  fever,"  whose  contagion  he  seemed  to  dread 
so  much. 

After  the  storm  of  passion  through  which  she  had  lately 
passed,  tbe  serene  and  blessed  influences  of  nature  impressed 
her  as  they  had  never  done  before.  Singing  bird  and 
waving  branch,  leaf-shadow,  and  wild  flower,  the  wind  among 
the  hemlocks,  the  perfect  calm  when  the  air  was  still,  the 
afternoon  sunlight  slanting  through  the  straight  trunks  of 
the  old  trees,  the  hill-side  at  whose  foot  ran  Silver-creek, 
broad  and  deep,  where  baptismal  rites  were  celebrated,  the 
chirping  of  cricket  and  grasshopper  ;  to  her  eye  and  sense 
there  was  nothing  in  all  the  varied  influences  of  this  sur- 
rounding life,  human  and  other,  nothing  to  disgust  or  weary. 
Her  lot  was  to  labor.  The  phases  of  common  life  were  those 
with  which  she  was  familiar — she  was  accustomed  to  no 
other.  These  people  around  her  talked  of  the  meeting  as  if 
it  were  a  foretaste  of  Heaven — so  they  called  it.  Was  she 
longing,  while  she  listened,  to  understand  their  meaning  ? 
Had  she  not  consented  to  Senior's  doctrine — had  she  not 
spoken  with  contempt  of  the  conversion  of  niauy  of  their 
neighbors  ?  Could  she  consent  to  render  in  turn  any  like 
superficial  homage  to  the  Most  High  ? 

But  she  began  to  listen,  and  to  pray,  at  last,  and  was 
pricked  in  her  heart.  And  there  were  those  surrounding 
her  who  understood  the  signs  ;  a  thoughtful  face,  a  sigh,  a 
tear,  were  indications  to  be  hailed  with  solemn  joy  and  deep 
thanksgiving,  and  more  importunate  supplication.  It  was  Mr. 
Collamer's  preaching  that  brought  her  to  this  strait.  She  had 
seen  his  eyes  upon  her — she  had  felt  herself  astonished  and 
trembling  before  the  searching  words  by  which  he  did  not 
seem  to  explore  for  his  own  enlightenment — all  was  known 
to  him — but  in  order  that  slie  might  be  shown  to  herself, 
as  in  fact  she  was,  without  any  intervening  disguise  of  self- 


MIRANDA'S  CHANGING  HEART.  119 

love!  She  was  not  the  only  one  who  had  this  conviction, 
and  trembled  under  it.  It  was  the  power  of  the  man  so  to 
bring  truth  to  their  hearts,  thus  to  awaken  them. 

Speaking  thus  he  had  the  Authority  which  office  typifies 
His  spiritual  attitude  was  such  that  she  could  look  up  to  him 
with  the  confidence  of  an  appeal.  He  who  knew  so  well 
what  was  in  the  heart,  its  needs,  and  the  richness  and  vast- 
ness  of  the  heavenly  resources  !  Yet  what  was  her  need  ? 
Was  she  not  strong,  young,  capable  1  The  promised  wife  of 
Senior  Jobson,  the  anticipating  keeper  of  the  Spread  Eagle  ? 
He  made  her  apprehend  the  fact  of  death,  that  it  was  the 
only  certainty  concerning  this  mortal  state  on  which  she 
could  rely  !  He  showed  to  her  the  perfect  beauty,  and  the  ho- 
liness of  true  natural  affections  !  He  called  upon  her  to  pu- 
rify her  heart  and  serve  and  honor  God,  by  worthily 
serving  and  honoring  His  image — human  nature.  He  show- 
ed her  the  Divine  law  as  operating  in  all  created  life,  and 
called  on  her  to  render  reverent  and  joyful  obedience.  By 
it  the  trees  of  the  wood  came  to  rejoicing  in  perfect  strength 
and  perfect  beauty — the  flowers  of  the  field  were  adorned  in 
their  perfection — the  cattle  flocked  upon  a  thousand  hills — 
and  human  love  came  into  exercise  of  its  best  powers,  and 
did  its  perfect  works.  The  mother  who  most  wisely  loved 
her  child,  the  most  reverently  served  her  Maker  ;  the  wife 
who  had  truest  devotion  to  her  husband  was  the  most  faith- 
ful servant  of  her  Lord.  He  showed  her  how  allegiance  to 
humanity  was  allegiance  to  God  ;  and  she  yielded  herself  to 
his  teaching,  seeing  that  she  had  up  to  this  time  scoffed  in 
ignorance,  which  was  not,  therefore  the  less  blasphemous. 
Surely  she  should  be  the  better  child,  the  better  wife,  the 
better  landlady,  for  this.  Poor  Senior  !  would  that  he  could 
be  persuaded  to  come  to  the  meeting.  But  it  would  anger 
him  to  urge  him  ;  she  had  time  yet,  a  lifetime,  in  which  to 
do  the  work  she  must  perform  for  Senior. 

And  so  there  was  in  all  this  experience  something  beauti- 
fully, sacredly  real  to  Miranda.  The  peace  she  felt  was  past 
her  understanding,  but  how  ascertained  it  was  !  And  then, 
widow  Green's  friendly  encouragement,  and  the  Elder's 
blessing,  and  her  father's  joy,  and  Sally's  sympathy — for 
Sally  was  among  the  converts  also,  and  she  had  already  led 
in  prayer,  urged  by  her  grandmother,  who  would  have  it 
known  that  the  Elder's  daughter  stood  on  the  Lord's  side. 


120  PETER     CARRADINK. 

All  this  made  Randy  very  happy,  it  made  her  very  happy 
too  that  Oliver  Savage  attended  the  exercises  so  devoutly. 
Oliver  had  been  a  wild  youth  ;  he  had  caused  his  poor  moth- 
er great  trouble  since  her  husband's  death  ;  but  now  he  was 
interested,  he  listened  so  earnestly,  he  prayed  for  himself 
with  such  fervor,  and  he  asked  the  brethren's  prayers  so 
humbly,  he  confessed  his  wrong-doing  with  such  penitent 
expressions,  and  with  so  many  tears — fairly  surrendered  to 
these  influences,  you  can  hear  how  Randy's  voice,  so  strong 
and  sweet,  bears  up  the  words — 

"  Salvation  !  oh,  salvation ! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim. 
Till  earth's  remotest  nation 
Has  learned  Messiah's  name ." 

As  the  reader  understands,  Mr.  Collamer's  preaching 
searched  the  depths  of  hearts  whose  secrets  were  quite  hid- 
den from  him.  He  had  by  no  means  gone  far  in  his  discov- 
eries concerning  Miranda  as  his  words  led  her  to  suppose. 
But  as  her  experience  became  known  to  him,  by  his  own  ob- 
servations, aided  greatly  by  the  remarks  of  her  friends,  and 
at  length  by  her  own  confessions,  his  interest  in  her  was 
more  and  more  aroused.  He  saw  perhaps  more  clearly  than 
any  other  person  who  had  knowledge  of  Miranda,  the  dan- 
ger in  which  she  now  stood — it  must  be  his  care  to  avert  that 
danger. 

And  as  it  happened  that  the  young  people  were  often 
gathering  together  for  reading  and  conversation,  and  prayer, 
he  came  into  frequent  personal  communion  with  them,  and 
addressed  their  individual  condition  as  he  deemed  he  could 
not  in  preaching.  And  he  spoke  with  Miranda  as  well  as 
with  the  rest.  Always  his  speech  referred  to  the  vital  con- 
cerns of  life  ;  and  his  utterance  had  a  veteran  gravity,  a 
saintly  solemnity. 

There  was  danger  in  his  experiment.  A  danger  of  which 
he  took  no  thought,  and  of  course  no  precaution. 

But  how,  as  he  spoke,  and  she  listened  to  this  preacher, 
in  public  and  in  private,  through  prayer  and  exhortation, 
did  every  other  image  fall  from  among  her  imaginations  ! 
Utterly,  irrevocably  they  fell ! 

How  mildly  she  listened  !  How  eagerly,  how  gladly,  and 
with  what  believing !  What  a  spirit  of  discipleship  was  this 


MIRANDA'S  CHANGING  HEART.  121 

that  learned  of  Mr.  Collamer  !  In  his  presence  she  was 
conscious  of  no  pride  to  support.  She  had  no  strong  will  to 
resent  or  direct  when  she  yielded  herself  to  this  young 
man's  saintly  ardor.  A  word  of  directing  encouragement 
from  him,  why  it  was  sufficient  to  set  her  valorous  soul  to 
climb  ing  the  "  shining  bastions"  of  the  city  whose  walls  are 
of  jasper  and  sapphire,  emerald,  topaz,  amethyst! 

More  beautiful  than  anything  she  had  dreamed  of  concern- 
ing man  or  angel,  was  the  spirit,  the  presence,  of  this  man, 
of  which  she  now  and  then  obtained  startling  glimpses,  that 
seemed  to  break  through  the  black  rifts  of  this  world's  com- 
mon and  unclean,  as  sometimes  on  rapt  vision,  the  white 
robe  and  harp- sweeping  hand  of  some  spirit  that  shall  be 
troubled  and  tempted  no  more.  She  waited  for  his  appear- 
ing. She  hung  upon  his  words.  She  was  content  to  pass 
through  wastes  to  reach  him — to  come  within  their  sound. 
And  deeming  that  these  experiences  were  religious  all,  how 
rich  she  deemed  herself  in  them.  Oh,  rapturous  days  ! 
Oh,  sacred  influences  !  Experiences  to  be  remembered  for 
their  brightness  through  darkest  years  and  trials  !  to  remain 
forever  an  assurance  and  a  token. 

Yes,  it  was  easy  to  forgive  Mr.  Carradine.  Easy  to  pray 
for  him  !  Easy  to  acknowledge  Miss  Fuller's  perfections. 
For  her — the  will  of  God. 

It  was  Heaven  indeed  that  she  had  entered.  But  the 
Heaven  that  might  yet  be  taken  by  violence  from  her.  As- 
saults at  those  gates  of  pearl,  might  they  not  yet  prevail  1 
Alas,  if  its  fair  defences  were  yet  to  be  carried  !  or  its 
golden  stree-ts  to  be  surrendered  to  the  rabble  ! 

No  wonder  that  she  saw  the  sunbeams  falling  through  the 
branches,  slanting  to  the  grass,  during  those  wondrous  after- 
noons, with  a  light  so  new  !  No  wonder  that  she  seemed  to 
hear  the  songs  of  birds  as  never  before.  That  their  notes 
enchanted  her.  That  she  watched  the  flutterings  of  leaves, 
the  gliding  of  the  worm  :  listened  to  the  running  water  ;  look- 
ed upon  her  neighbors  with  a  gentleness  so  new  that  she 
confounded  it  with  the  work  and  grace  of  God.  Who  shall 
deny  that  such  sovereign  work  it  was ! 

How  kindly  disposed  she  felt  towards  the  poor,  hard- 
working people,  her  friends  and  neighbors  ;  and  all  these 
strangers  who  had  come  from  far  and  near — these  thousands 
of  persons  !  More  than  she  had  thought  were  in  the  world, 

6 


122  PETER  CARRADINE. 

in  spite  of  what  she  had  read  in  books  and  newspapers.  The 
multitudes  of  children  too  !  how  gentle  was  the  voice  that 
spoke,  how  tender  the  gaze  that  turned  to  them  !  the  gentle 
voice — the  tender  gaze  of  Handy  !  Immortal  souls  for  the 
saving  work  of  love — for  the  human  happy  homes  !  So  she 
greeted  them. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  never  again  speak  ill  of 
any  human  being.  God's  pity  seemed  to  have  descended  on 
her  heart.  She  felt  a  new  spirit  informing  her  natural  en- 
ergy, and  always  she  was  expert  in  labor,  and  was  strong. 
She  could  toil  from  morning  until  night,  and  day  after  day, 
for  years.  What  had  she  to  do  with  weakness  or  infirmity  ? 
She  had  risen  to  the  labor  whereto  she  was  called. 

Why  should  she  withhold  her  gratitude  from  him  who  had 
been  chiefly  instrumental  in  turning  her  steps  from  dark- 
ness to  light  ?  Why  should  she  not  pray  for  him  ?  Why 
should  she  not  ask  that  his  life  and  health  might  be  preser- 
ved to  usefulness  and  honor  ?  And  when  he  knelt  to  pray, 
or  rose  to  address  the  multitude,  might  not  she  regard  his 
continuance  in  these  exhausting  labors,  that  seemed  even 
too  great  for  him,  as  the  answer  to  her  prayer  ?  And  if  she 
could  for  herself,  or  for  another,  speak  with  the  Almighty, 
and  prevail,  oh,  should  she  ever  cease  to  plead  in  his  be- 
half, wherever  he  might  go — whatever  he  might  do  ?  And 
she  would  watch  him  as  the  rising  of  the  sun,  note  its  noon- 
day, see  its  glory  and  its  work. 

Ah,  yes,  true  heart  of  woman  !  But  now,  if  the  blessing 
wherewith  he  is  blest  includes  you  not  ?  If  you  shall  in- 
deed behold  him  rising  as  the  sun,  under  which  the  violets 
and  the  thistles  bloom — even  poisonous  plants  !  If  you 
shall  see  this  Apollo,  with  his  "far-darting"  spear,  smiting 
to  death  ;  if  you  shall  see  icy  streams  unlocked  by  him — 
hoary  rocks  all  dripping — fruits  ripening,  rich  vines  on  the 
hill  side,  precious  hot-house  products — even  the  wild  thorn, 
and  he  shall  give  to  some  fair  moon  her  light,  this  mightily 
illuminating  sun,  will  you  then  be  content,  and  praise  God 
for  him,  and  pray  for  moon  as  well  as  for  sun-shining  ? 
And  beseech  that  no  confusion  be  permitted  in  the  spheres  ? 


WHAT  IS  A  COUSIN  GOOD  FOR.  123 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WHAT   IS   A   COUSIN   GOOD   FOE?    ETC. 

NIGHT  was  coming  on  when  Mr.  Johnson  reined  his  horses 
in  before  the  farm  gate.  The  silence  of  the  homeward  drive 
had  been  scarcely  broken.  Each  individual  brain  was  busy 
with  its  individual  thinking,  and  even  Johnson  was  now  in- 
different as  to  whether  Miss  Fuller  thought,  or  did  not 
think,  his  wife  unsocial.  The  influences  of  the  day,  and  of 
the  solemn  company  had  not  been  lost  on  him.  All  the 
way  home  he  was  thinking  that,  if  a  praying  spirit 
could  be  put  into  him  so  that  he  should  not  mind  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice,  how  comfortable  it  would  make  him.  He 
was  aware  that  he  had  something  to  repent  of — but  how  to 
repent  ?  It  would  please  him  if  he  could  be  set  right,  so  as 
to  lead  the  life  of  a  Christian  man  henceforth.  He  had  over- 
heard his  wife  praying,  not  long  ago,  that  he  might  yet  be- 
come a  burning  and  a  shining  light.  He  wished  it  could  be 
done  !  So  thinking  and  so  wishing,  he  sat  up  stiffly  in  his 
seat,  with  an  unusual  solemnity  of  countenance,  and  spoke 
gently  to  the  horses  when  they  inclined  to  lag  too  much. 
He  was  impatient'withal,  for  he  longed  to  get  away  by  him- 
self, he  wanted  to  be  entirely  alone.  This  work  he  had  got 
to  do  was  so  difficult — the  very  sight  of  the  faces  of  these 
women  in  the  wagon  only  aggravated  him — it  seemed  to  be 
so  much  easier  for  women  than  for  men  to  get  religion  ! 
But  if  he  were  once  alone  he  thought  that  perhaps  he  could 
come  nearer  to  Grod  !  That  was  speaking  after  the  manner 
of  his  wife. 

For  he  must  believe,  what  he  had  never  doubted — though, 
now  he  came  to  think  of  it,  how  awful  it  all  was  !  Look  un- 
to me  and  bo  ye  saved,  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  !  God 


124  PETER   CARRADINE. 

actually  on  earth  once,  speaking  with  a  man's  voice  !  looked 
upon  by  men  ;  a  human  being  to  look  at — once  a  child,  and 
a  boy,  and  a  young  man,  at  the  last  and  utmost  only  thirty- 
three  years  old,  younger  than  Johnson  !  This  Jesus — this 
King  Jesus  !  Omnipresent  too — standing,  wherever  he 
might  turn,  standing,  looking  on  him.  Here  even  among 
them  as  they  drove  home  in  the  wagon.  "  If  any  man  will 
open  unto  me  I  will  come  in.  Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door 
and  knock  !''  Here,  then,  in  wife's  heart,  and  in  Miss  Ful- 
ler's— and  in  Sonny's  heart;  too,  for  did  not  Mr.  Carradine 
say  that  Harry  was  not  an  outsider  ?  Of  such  is  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven !" 

He  wished  he  might  be  able,  just  for  once,  to  look  into 
Mr.  Carradine's  heart,  and  discover  his  belief — for  Mr.  Car- 
radine had  his  own  thoughts  on  these  subjects.  But,  at 
least  he  knew  pretty  well  his  wife's  way  of  thinking.  She 
was  old  in  these  things.  And,  then,  could  he  not  take  a  lit- 
tle courage,  remembering  that  he  had  seen  the  teacher  sing- 
ing with  the  great  congregation,  looking  as  if  she  were  very 
much  in  earnest — not  at  all  above  the  business,  even  she  ! 

"  Salvation !  oh,  salvation ! 
The  joyful  sound  proclaim  !" 

Yes,  he  must  try  to  think  of  these  things.  After  all,  he 
could  not  rest  satisfied  any  longer,  as  he  had  continued  to 
satisfy  himself,  that  Mrs.  Johnson's  goodness  was  enough 
for  her  and  for  him,  and  for  a  houseful  of  people.  Mr.  Col- 
lamer  said  it  was  a  personal  matter — you  must  pass  through 
the  straight  gate  single  file.  No  one  gets  in  without  a  pass- 
port. Perhaps  he  would  talk  with  wife,  when  Harry  was 
asleep.  Poor  woman  !  he  knew  how  glad  she'd  be  to  help 
him — poor  old  girl !  But  to  make  a  clean  breast — to  own 
everything ! 


Mercy  was  to  spend  the  night  at  the  red  farm-house,  as 
the  Elder's  family  remained  on  the  camping-ground. 

Work  had  not  gone  altogether  well  with  Mr.  Carradine 
that  day,  and  now,  for  at  least  an  hour,  he  had  been  expect- 
ing and  desiring  to  see  Johnson  drive  up  to  the  gate.  There 


WHAT  IS  A  COUSIN  GOOD  FOR.  125 

was  some  important  work  yet  to  be  done  before  dark  ;  at 
least  Carradine  now  chose  to  think  so,  and  if  he  had  not 
seen  Miss  Fuller  in  the  wagon,  he  would  have  failed  to  re- 
press  the  impatient  salutation  on  his  lips. 

Johnson  understood  the  symptoms  he  perceived,  and  his 
devout  aspirations  and  purposes  were  clean  forgotten  as  he 
trotted  off  to  the  barn. 

"  The  plague's  in  it,"  he  said,  as  he  hurried  through  the 
unharnessing  ;  "  if  I  was  dead,  I  wonder  if  he  wouldn't  ex- 
pect the  farm  to  up  and  off.  Ne'er  a  chore  left  for  him,  but 
all  the  orders  give  out  to  the  men,  so  he  might  a  slep'  all 
day  with  his  handkercher  over  his  head — and  night  come 
everything's  head  over  heels  !" 


In  the  course  of  another  hour  Mr.  Carradine  was  in  an- 
other frame  of  mind.  He  wanted  to  know  about  the  meet- 
ing, and  what  Mercy  honestly  thought  of  it.  Her  report 
did  not  seem  to  please  him  ;  she  must  still  have  over  the  old 
adage,  "  Many  men  of  many  minds  :"  but  he  joined  in  her 
praise  of  young  Collamer,  and  said  that,  if  she  and  Mrs. 
Johnson  could  allow  that  there  was  any  good  in  such  gather- 
ings, he  must,  of  course,  believe  in  them,  though  the  meet- 
ing still  went  clean  against  his  judgment. 

People  called  him  a  boisterous  man,  he  said,  and  Johnson 
swore  that  he  was  equal  to  any  forty-horse  power ;  but,  for 
all  that,  he  liked  quiet  as  much  as  another  man ;  and  praying 
didn't  seem  to  him  more  likely  to  be  heard  in  Heaven  for 
the  yelling  of  it.  He  liked  gentle  ways,  and  quiet  voices. 
And  work  that  went  on  smoothly  in  the  house,  without  dis- 
turbance. When  Mrs.  Johnson  was  sick,  Randy  stayed  in 
the  house  a  month  and  more.  There  were  few  things  Randy 
couldn't  do  ;  but  the  house  seemed  filled  with  people  when 
she  was  about — and  he  believed  that  it  was  her  fault  little 
Harry  was  such  a  crying  child  when  he  was  a  baby.  He 
had  thought,  from  what  he  had  seen  of  her  while  there,  that 
she  was  better  fitted  for  school-teaching  than  any  other 
W0rk — but  he  had  found  out  his  mistake. 

He  checked  himself  when  he  had  spoken  thus  far  ;  and 
after  walking  a  few  times  across  the  piazza,  came  and  sat 
down  ajnun. 


126  PETER   CARRAD1XE. 

"  Randy  hasn't  troubled  you  since  you  came  to  Martin- 
dale,  has  she,  Miss  Fuller?"  he  asked. 

He  averted  his  eyes  from  Mercy  while  asking  this  ques- 
tion— and  did  not  look  at  her  when  she  answered  : 

"  No.     We  are  good  friends,  I  think.     We  shall  be." 

He  seemed,  on  the  whole,  satisfied  to  hear  that. 

"  Did  you  see  her  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes — she  was  in  the  tent." 

"  Noisy  ?" 

"  Oh,  no — quite  silent." 

"  You  know  they  say  she  is  converted.  That's  what  they 
call  it.  And  she  has  been  praying  for  me  down  there  ;  and 
getting  others  to  do  it.  I'm  sure  if  you  were  among  them, 
Miss  Fuller,  I  should  be  much  obliged.  But  I  wouldn't  ex- 
pect anything  so  very  desirable  if  that  young  woman's 
prayers  could  be  answered.  But  they  think  it  marvellous 
she  should  take  to  praying  for  me,  who  had  been  her  enemy 
— that's  what  they  say  of  it.  She  ought  to  call  me  her 
friend.  She  ought  to  be  obliged  to  me  to  that  extent.  For 
if  ever  a  man  told  her  the  truth  about  herself,  I  am  the 
one." 

"  Poor  girl,"  said  Mercy  Fuller. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ':"  asked  he.  "  For  I  take  it  that 
every  word  you  say  means  something." 

"  If  she  is  what  you  believe  her  to  be,  Mr.  Carradine,  she 
has  to  endure  herself.  The  worst  kind  of  necessity,  accord- 
ing to  my  mind." 

"  I'm  willing  you  should  pity  her  after  that  fashion,"  said 
he. 

Little  Harry  was  playing  on  the  steps  by  himself,  and 
singing,  meanwhile,  the  burden  of  one  of  the  songs  he  had 
heard  in  the  woods. 

"  Come  and  say  your  hymn  to  me,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Carra- 
dine. 

The  child  came  instantly,  and  began  the  recitation,  and  at 
first,  when  his  memory  failed,  the  teacher  prompted  him — 
but  presently  her  attention  seemed  to  wander,  and  when  he 
came  to  a  full  stop,  instead  of  helping  him,  she  took  him  on 
her  knee,  and  said  : 

"  When  I  was  a  little  girl,  Harry,  I  had  a  playmate  of 
about  your  size,  and  we  lived  in  a  farm-house  near  the  sea." 


WHAT  IS  A  COUSIN  GOOD  FOR.  127 

"  Near  the  sea  ?"  he  repeated,  seeming  to  be  in  some 
doubt  what  that  might  mean. 

"  Yes — you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  live  by  the  sea.  do 
you  ?  As  far  as  your  eyes  could  look,  when  you  stood  on 
the  beach,  you  could  see  the  waters  of  the  great  Atlantic 
Ocean.  Yon  great  grass-field  made  me  think  of  it,  Mr.  Car- 
radine,  when  I  saw  the  wind  sweep  across  it.  You  know 
how  the  rye-field  looks  in  the  wind,  Harry  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  beautiful !"  he  answered,  looking  at  the  teacher 
with  beaming  eyes. 

"  I  haven't  seen  the  ocean  since  I  was  a  little  girl ;  I 
wasn't  older  than  you,  Harry,  when  the  old  place  was  all 
broken  up,  and  ever  since  I  have  been  drifting  about,  up 
and  down,  and  the  sea  seems  very  large,  though  it  certainly 
has  its  shores.  I  must  believe  that." 

"  You  might  take  Martindale  for  an  island,  then,"  said 
Peter  Carradine,  secretly  disturbed  as  he  looked  at  the 
teacher,  and  seemed  to  perceive  the  meaning  of  her  words. 

"  Did  you  like  to  live  there,  so  close  by  the  water  ?" 
asked  Harry.  "  Did  you  ever  see  the  ships  ?  The  great 
big  ships  ?" 

"  Every  day  almost — with  all  their  sails  spread  ;  how 
beautiful  they  were  !  We  loved  it  dearly,  my  cousin  and  I. 
We  never  were  afraid.  I  don't  think  we  knew  what  fear 
was.  We  used  to  sit  on  the  shore,  there  was  a  high  shelf 
of  rock  just  beyond  the  reach  of  the  highest  tide,  and  there 
we  sat.  Sometimes  the  great  waves  came  rolling  in,  as 
mighty  as  if  that  hill  should  come  moving  along  like  a  great 
dead  wall,  its  edges  all  white  and  curling.  It  is  a  great 
many  years  since  I  have  seen  them — but  once  seen  they're 
seen  forever.  Sometimes  I  dream  I  am  there.  And  then  to 
wake  up,  and  find  alf  so  still  around  me  !  Except  when 
there  is  a  thunder-storm,  there  is  nothing  to  remind  me  of 
the  wonderful  sea." 

"  You  don't  like  it  here  in  Martindale,  then  !  I  was 
afraid  you  wouldn't.  Why  should  you  ?"  said  Carradine, 
half  displeased,  and  yet  ready  to  justify  her. 

"  Oh,  yes — it  is  beautiful  here,  I  think,  only  different." 

"  What  became  of  your  cousin  ?"  he  asked  ;  and  there  was 
an  exacting  authoritative  sound  in  the  question,  sufficient  to 
make  one  smile.  Mrs.  Johnson  would  not  have  perceived 
it,  but  Mercy  Fuller  did. 


128  PETER    CARRADINE. 

She  was  so  long  in  replying,  that  he  was  ashamed  and 
sorry  to  think  that  he  had  asked.  Yet,  even  now,  it  seemed 
impossible  for  him  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  no  concern  of 
his.  And  yet  he  did  acknowledge  it. 

"  It's  none  of  my  business,  of  course,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  natural  you  should  ask.  But  I  cannot  tell  what 
has  become  of  my  cousin.  After  his  father  and  mother  died 
he  lived  in  college,  and  was  a  tutor  there  when  he  gradu- 
ated, that  was  years  ago.  He  was  very  young  at  that  time. 
A  remarkable  lad  ;  and  always  seemed  to  me  twice  as  old  as 
I,  he  was  so  grave  and  thoughtful.  He  loved  the  sea  with  a 
perfect  passion,  and  books  almost  as  well,  though  with  a  dif- 
ferent love.  I  believe  he  will  have  an  extraordinary  career, 
if  be  lives.  When  he  was  in  college  no  one  thought  he 
would  graduate  ;  but  he  laughed  at  every  prediction,  and 
said  he  meant  to  live  because  he  thought  it  worth  a  man's 
while.  But  when  the  time  came  he  was  so  feeble  that  he 
could  not  pass  through  the  examination  ;  but  he  would  de- 
liver his  valedictory,  and  people  listened  so,  that  not  a  word 
of  it  was  lost ;  and  at  the  close  the  students  carried  him 
home  on  their  shoulders.  They  were  so  proud  of  him.  Ev- 
erybody supposed  that  he  must  pay  for  his  honors  with  his 
life.  The  students  thought  ho  would  never  lift  his  head 
again  from  the  bed  where  they  laid  him.  But  I  heard  from 
him  afterwards,  that  he  was  a  tutor  in  the  college,  and  a  law 
student.  You  will  understand  that,  though  I  hear  from  him 
so  rarely,  I  never  feel  far  away  from  him." 

"  It  is  strange  you  should  be  separated,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
radine,  not  by  any  means  delighted  at  what  he  had  heard. 

"  It  could  not  be  otherwise,"  she  answered;  "perhaps  it 
will  not  be  always.  We  cannot  tell  wh«t  a  day  will  give  us. 
If  Horatio's  mother  had  lived,  everything  would  have  been 
very  different.  She  would  never  have  allowed  him  to  run 
the  career  he  has.  I  sometimes  think  she  must  have  been 
the  wisest  woman  in  the  world  ;  for  I  don't  think  I  ever  met 
a  mother  like  her  ;  not  one  that  took  such  loving,  wise  and 
thoughtful  care  of  a  child.  And  I  never  saw  another  woman 
so  possessed  of  a  sense  of  the  Divine  justice — nor  one  who 
understood  so  well  that  what  she  planted  in  the  child  should 
be  reaped  again.  I  have  seen  what  she  thought,  and  what 
she  hoped  to  do,  in  a  letter  she  wrote  a  friend — and  I  can 
look  back  to  her  actual  dealings  with  us,  especially  with  Ho- 


WHAT  IS  A  COUSIN  GOOD  FOR.  129 

ratio,  and  understand  how  really  she  was  acting  on  the 
strength  of  belief.  She  would  have  made  him  a  generous, 
holy  man,  whose  aspirations  would  all  have  been  heavenly 
and  God-like,  with  a  human  demonstration.  She  would  not 
have  carelessly  left  him  to  grow  up  as  he  might,  expecting 
and  hoping  that  God's  spirit  would  by-and-by  descend  upon 
him,  and  convert  him  out  of  a  man  of  selfishness  into  a  man 
of  God.  She  would  have  built  a  temple  fit  for  the  indwell- 
ing Holy  Spirit.  It  has  seemed  to  me  more  and  more  the 
greatest  calamity  to  all  of  us  that  she  died  so  young.  For, 
when  I  think  of  the  children  I  have  seen,  it  seems  to  me 
there's  not  another  mother  in  the  world  alive  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  these  things  as  she  was.  But  I  have  the  confidence 
that,  whatever  delusion  Horatio  Aptomar  may  pass  through, 
he  will,  in  the  end,  prove  to  be  in  some  sort  the  realization 
of  his  mother's  purpose.  For,  after  all,  a  mother's  work  is 
the  great  work  of  the  world." 

How  listened  this  man  to  this  unlooked-for  and  strange 
speech,  that  seemed  to  be  uttered  because  the  moment,  and 
by  no  means  the  auditor,  drew  it  from  her.  Fancy  the 
stolid  faces,  the  frivolous,  leering  faces,  the  doubtful  and 
unbelieving,  the  contemptuous  and  blaspheming  questioners, 
that,  in  all  courtesy,  might  have  waited  through  the  tedium 
of  such  utterance  !  Is  it  beyond  your  power  to  summon 
such  an  audience  of  familiar  human  faces  1 

Mercy  was  surprised  when  she  looked  at  Peter  Carra- 
dine  ;  he  sat  bolt  upright  beside  her — his  massive  counte- 
nance had  in  it  an  expression  that  glorified  it ;  every  feature 
was  grand  with  the  evidence  of  his  heart's,  his  soul's  full 
intelligence  and  response  to  her  speaking.  Men  might  not 
have  recognized  in  him  their  neighbor  ;  but  it  was  not  with 
men  that  he  was  dealing  now.  It  was  with  a  woman  who 
had  been  moved  to  speak.  Let  her  speak  on  !  Why  not  ? 
There  is  no  danger,  my  young  friends,  that  you  will  often 
be  dismayed  by  a  repetition  of  her  discourse.  Mercy  seemed 
in  her  heart  to  be  solving  the  Woman  question  ;  and  doubt 
less  it  is,  at  one  time  or  another,  in  one  form  or  another, 
proposed  to  every  woman  in  the  world  ;  but  there  are  nu 
merous  ways  opened  whereby  swift  feet  may  escape  with  a 
burdened  brain  or  heart  into  "  Vanity  Fair." 

"  Then  you  don't  believe,"  said  he,  taking  swift  hold  of 
the  one  thought  she  had  uttered  with  which  he  could  most 

6* 


130  PETER    CAERADINE. 

readily  deal ;  "  you  don't  believe  in  these    sudden   conver- 
sions they  talk  about  ?" 

"  There  is  no  end  to  the  goodness  of  God.  I  cannot  limit 
Him.  He  can  forever  open  new  ways  of  escape.  But  he 
did  not  mean  that  this  human  life  should  fail  us  ;  of  that  I 
am  certain.  Nor  intend  that  we  should  look  on  death  as  a 
door  of  deliverance — nor  that  we  should  go  as  strangers  and 
pilgrims  through  this  world.  But  that  while  we  remained 
here,  we  should  find  here  our  rest ;  our  Divine  satisfaction, 
in  the  heauty,  the  glory,  the  unlimited  ability  of  doing  and 
being.  Woman  has  never  yet  fulfilled  her  work.  Fulfilled 
it !  she  has  not  begun  to  imagine  what  it  is  ;  what  she  may 
do,  and  be,  in  this  world.  The  Catholics  worship  a  woman, 
and  render  her  honors  as  the  mother  of  Jesus.  As  the  mo- 
ther of  a  Divine  man  !  But  a  mere  expression  of  the 
simple  truth  would  seem  almost  blasphemous  in  the  ears  of 
most  women.  Not  if  spoken  in  any  moment  when  they  were 
lifted  into  their  proper  life  by  a  noble  love.  But  the  most 
of  them  are  incapable  of  that  life,  and  how  should  they  be 
competent  to  any  other  ?  It  is  not  woman,  but  it  is  women, 
that  move  the  heart  to  hopelessness,  and  doubt,  and  all  man- 
ner of  unbelief.  Every  man  has  an  ideal  which  woman  was 
meant  to  make  good.  And  so  has  every  woman  a  God  to  be 
incarnated  in  love.  Her  unbelief  is  death — the  real  death 
of  the  woman.  And  the  body  of  death  that  remains  when 
her  life  has  left  her,  can  it  work  anything  beside  cor- 
ruption ?  I  speak  to  you  as  if  I  were  meditating  a  speech. 
I  have  heard  women  speak  of  their  rights.  If  they  had 
made  the  men  of  the  world  what  God  intended  they  should 
make  of  them,  there  would  have  been  no  need  of  this  com- 
plaining. Martyrdom  is  endured  in  silence,  if  nobly  at  all. 
1  He  was  dumb,  as  a  lamb  before  her  shearers  so  opened  he 
not  his  mouth.'  Through  countless  generations  the  sins  of 
the  fathers  are  visited  upon  the  children." 

"What  Mr.  Carradine  might  have  attempted  by  way  of  ex- 
tenuation or  of  argument,  we  shall  not  discover,  for,  as 
Mercy  ceased  speaking,  Harry's  gray  cat  ran  across  the  pi- 
azza with  a  young  robin  in  her  mouth,  and  they  all  started 
to  their  feet,  as  if  to  prevent  an  accomplished  destruction. 

"  You  might  think  a  little  bird  could  get  on,"  said  Car- 
radine, as  he  came  back  to  the  piazza,  "  without  such  a  mis- 
fortune." 


WHAT  IS  A  COUSIN  GOOD  FOE.  131 

"  Now,   learn  a  lesson  from  the  robin,   and  be  still,"  said 
Mercy  to  herself. 


Carradine  wo'ild,  on  the  whole,  have  been  better  pleased 
had  he  heard  nothing  of  the  cousin  Horatio  Aptomar  ;  at 
least  if,  hearing  of  him,  he  had  not  received  an  impression 
that  seemed  to  justify  Mercy's  praise.  What  could  such  a 
woman  think  of  such  a  man  as  himself  for  instance,  with 
such  thoughts  as  she  had,  and  such  recollections  ?  Yet  she 
had  expressed  them  as  in  a  not  unworthy  hearing ;  she  had 
not  seemed  to  fear  misunderstanding,  or  that  she  would 
prove  unintelligible.  And  he  had  understood  her!  With 
her  presence  his  ideal  had  sprung  into  life — she  answered 
to  all  she  had  inspired  his  heart  to  desire — not  within  his 
range  of  apprehension  was  anything  more  lofty  or  more 
beautiful  than  the  mere  woman  who  had  been  speaking  to 
him,  in  the  piazza,  he  chose  to  think,  and  not  merely  making 
the  result  of  the  day's  meditation  vocal ;  and  the  cause  of 
that  meditation,  her  cousin  ! 

When  he  was  alone  he  sat  thinking  over  her  words — com- 
paring her  with  every  other  woman  he  had  seen,  with  the 
ladies  he  had  sometimes  met  at  Brown's  house,  in  Brighton, 
or  at  Mr.  Martin's.  Those  fine  ladies,  of  whom  he  had  ob- 
tained flitting  glances,  taking  himself  speedily  out  of  their 
way,  though  they  were  kind  and  gracious,  feeling  that  their 
presence  was  no  place  for  him.  But  was  Mercy  less  a  lady 
than  those  1  He  fancied  her,  in  that  pretty  muslin  dress, 
standing  in  the  midst  of  such  a  company  !  She  would  not 
have  looked  out  of  place.  She  would  have  felt  at  home 
among  them,  as  much  as  such  an  honest  spirit  could.  For 
she  would  not  look  on  frivolty  in  woman  with  patience. 
How  could  she,  after  what  she  had  said  ?  No  ;  for  it  was  not 
in  her  nature. 

Perhaps,  among  those  gaily-attired  women,  Peter  Carra- 
diue's  suit  would  not  have  been  preferred  in  vain.  And  yet 
he  never  would  have  dreamed  to  desire  such  a  possession 
as  he  might  thus  have  gained.  He  was  thinking  of  all  this, 
and  wondering  if  other  women  had  such  thoughts  as  she  had 
acknowledged — such  beliefs.  She  had  said  that  they  did 
not  believe.  And  was  it  for  this  declaration  she  had  made, 


132  PETER    CARRADINE. 

that  he  novr  regarded  her,  as  he  had  never  before,  and  as  he 
felt  he  never  should  regard  another  woman  !  But  until  she 
had  expressed  her  convictions  he  had  not  thought  that  any 
such  were  possible  to  any  human  being.  And  before  she 
uttered  them  he  had  begun  to  see  what  he  now  saw,  in 
clearer  light,  in  regard  to  himself  and  her.  But  he  found 
that  he  /tad  aspiration  and  an  ideal,  and  that  she  satisfied 
both.  So  far  as  himself  was  concerned,  he  was  convinced 
that  it  would  be  the  consummation  of  a  blessedness  he  had 
never  so  much  as  imagined,  if  he  could  hear  her  saying 
that  she  loved  him  ;  he  felt  drawn  to  seek  her  again  and 
tell  her  that  he  placed  his  life  in  her  hands,  to  do  with  as 
she  would.  But  the  sudden  conviction  of  what  the  loss 
would  be  if  she  should  show  him  his  folly,  as  certainly  she 
would,  withheld  him ;  not  the  thought  that  she  could  not  be 
prepared  for  such  a  declaration — that  it  would,  by  its  sud- 
denness, surprise  her  beyond  a  possibility  of  seeing  any 
right  or  reason  in  such  a  step. 
So  ended  that  day  to  him. 


Johnson's  day  was  ending  scarcely  less  notably.  lie 
stood  by  his  window,  looking  out.  His  wife  had  gone  to  bed, 
the  candle  was  still  burning,  and  he  had  said  to  himself,  "  Be- 
fore I  put  out  that  light  I'll  speak  to  her  ;"  but  there  he 
stood,  and  the  prospect  was  that  his  speech  would  not  be 
immediate.  Indeed,  the  candle  burned  into  its  socket,  and 
he  did  not  perceive  it.  Then  arose  his  wife  and  put  the 
light  out,  and  went  up  to  the  window,  and  said,  in  an  agitated 
and  yet  resolute  voice  : 

"Johnson,  what's  it  mean?  If  you  don't  want  to  tell 
me,  pretend  there's  nothing  the  matter.  Only  'twould  do 
you  good,  I'm  let  to  think." 

Then  he  turned  and  answered  her,  humbly  enough  : 

"  I'm  trying  to  give  myself  to  God.  But  I  can't.  I 
always  thought  that  you  was  good  enough  for  us  both — but 
— help  me,  wife.  The  devil  won't  let  me  go  along  with  you  ; 
or  the  Lord  is  angry  ;  or  what  is  it,  I  don't  seem  to  see  any- 
thing or  know  anything.  I  feel  to  believe  I've  lost  my  rea- 
son outright,  and  am  like  an  idiot." 

His  wife,  while  she  spoke,  had  dropped  on  her  knees,  and 
had  hidden  her  face  ;  when  she  knew  that  he  was  kneeling 


WHAT  IS  A  COUSIN  GOOD  FOR.  133 

beside  her,  though  she  had  thought  to  pray,  she  could  not 
speak,  but  burst  into  tears. 

Then  he  cried  :  "  Oh,  Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly  !  come 
now!  comedown!  comedown!  come  this  very  minute  !  I've 
been  a  long  time  about  it.  I've  put  it  off  a  great  while,  but 
I  am  here  at  last.  Oh !  for  wife's  sake,  make  me  to  be 
saved." 

"  Xot  for  my  sake,  blessed  Savior,  but  for  thine  own 
dear  mercy's  sake,  thou  lamb  of  God !"  she  said,  fervently. 

"  Well  then,  oh  Lord,  because  she  asks  it,  hear  me  !" 

"  Nay,  oh,  blessed  Jesus,  but  because  thou  hast  prom- 
ised that  him  that  cometh  to  thee  thou  wilt  in  nowise  cist 
out,  for  thine  own  precious  promise's  sake,  hear  Johnson." 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  oh,  rend  the  heavens  and  come  down  !"  he 
cried. 

"  Thou  art  here  !"  she  responded  with  solemn  composure 
— this  was  the  wife's  hour!  "Are  we  not  talking  with 
thee  !  Hast  thou  not  said  that,  when  two  or  three  agree,  as 
touching  anything,  they  shall  ask  thee,  thou  wilt  hear  ?  We 
are  ignorant,  and  blind,  and  foolish,  but  thou  art  wise  and 
seest  all,  and  art  rich  to  all  fullness.  So  may  we  plead  with 
thee  !  So  may  we  ask  thee  !  For  he  has  something  to  ask 
thee  !" 

"  Yes,  Lord !  To  forgive  us  of  our  sins — make  us  thy 
true  children — make  us  humble — make  us — make  us."  There 
poor  Johnson  utterly  broke  down.  He  knew  not  what  he 
wanted — what  to  ask. 

"  We  know  not  how  to  ask  what  thou  knowest  so  well  to 
give.  But,  oh,  give  us  patience  for  to  wait  on  thee,  and  to 
believe  that,  when  thou  seest  the  time  has  come,  thou  wilt 
give  us  to  see  light.  We  have  been  a  long  while  about  it. 
We  have  wandered  a  great  way  from  thee,  and  we  are  lost 
if  thou  wilt  not  come  over  the  mountains  of  our  transgres- 
sions, and  love  us  freely,  and  forgive  us  all  things  !  And 
thou  hast  promised.  We  will  wait  for  thee  !" 

';  How  long,  oh  Lord  !    How  long  ! ' 

"  Blessed  Savior,  Jacob  served  seven  years  for  Rachel, 
and  seven  more  on  the  top  o'  that,  and  it  was  easy,  for  he 
loved  her  !  Be  not  angry  with  us — give  us  patience — shall 
we  not  be  able  to  love  thee,  and  serve  thee  all  our  lives,  only 
for  the  hope  that,  when  we  are  done  with  earth,  thou  wilt 
receive  us  into  heaven1. " 


134  PETEil   CARRADINE. 

"  But,  oh,  the  burden  of  sin!" 

"  Put  it  upon  Him,  poor  Johnson  !  Put  it  upon  Him. 
He  said,  my  Jesus,  didst  thou  not.  '  Though  your  sins  be 
as  scarlet,  they  shall  be  whiter  than  wool !'  Cast  your  bur- 
dens on  the  Lord  !  Come,  Johnson,  make  your  full  and  free 
surrender — you  can  do  no  more  than  that.  lie  must  do  the 
rest." 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  that's  what  I've  been  trying  to  see.  Here 
I  am,  oh,  Lord  !  do  the  work  ;  do  the  work  !  I  dun  no'  any 
thing  ;  I  can't  do  aught.  I  seem  to  have  become  a  child  for 
foolishness  ;  but  I  shall  see,  if  thou  gives  light." 

"  Yes  1"  said  his  wife,  in  solemn  asseveration. 

"  I  shall  walk  if  I  get  the  light." 

"  Thou  art  the  way,  the  truth,  the  life !"  responded  she. 

So  as  pilgrims  struggling  through  the  flood,  they  came  up 
to  land  again.  To  land  !  Stumble  not  thou  at  it ;  I  said 
not  to  the  summit  of  the  everlasting  mountains. 

"  Wife,"  said  he,  "  I'll  never  forget  how  you've  helped 
me  on  this  night." 

"  It  is  God  !"  said  she.  To  him  be  all  the  glory,  who  had 
restored  Johnson  to  her  !  "  Who  else  could  help  you,  poor 
Johnson  ?"  and  a  deeper  truth  than  either  could  perceive 
was  in  the  speech  of  both. 


When  somebody  said  to  Mr.  Carradine  : 

"  Johnson  is  converted,''  his  answer  was  not  in  the  leas* 
like  that  anticipated.  He  said,  gravely  : 

"Well,  sir  ;  Mr.  Johnson  is  a  good  man — so  is  his  wife. 
I  could  always  trust  my  property  with  Johnson." 

And  when,  subsequently,  after  much  hesitation,  the  farm- 
er brought  himself  to  say  to  Mr.  Carradine  : 

"  We  want  to  bring  Harry  up  all  right,  sir,  and  make  him 
understand  that  all  our  blessings  come  from  above  ;  and  so, 
if  you  have  no  objections,  we  would  like  to  make  a  little  re- 
mark in  his  hearing,  when  we  all  sit  down  to  the  table,  after 
Mrs.  Johnson  has  got  our  meals  ready — "  there  he  paused. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Carradine.  There  was  quite  as  mnch 
compulsion  as  permission  in  the  words  as  he  spoke  them. 

"  Would  you  have  any  objections,  sir  ?" 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Carradine,  with  a  brief 


WHAT  IS  A  COUSIN  GOOD  FOR.  135 

wave  of  the  hand.  Johnson  understood  the  familiar  sign. 
If  he  had  an  explanation  to  make,  let  him  do  it,  and  not 
waste  another  man's  time. 

"  To  ask  a  blessing,"  said  Johnson,  speaking  very  loud 
and  fast. 

Carradine  laughed,  hut  he  checked  himself  in  his  laugh- 
ter. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "  do  you  take  me  for  a 
scoundrel  ?  Why,  ask  for  your  blessing.  Donrt  you  sup- 
pose I'll  be  glad  if  you  get  it  ?  You  ought  to  let  your  hoy 
know  you  are  a  praying  man — and  that  you've  got  a  Father 
— above — as  well  as  he  !" 

So,  when  Johnson,  in  compliance  with  this  permission, 
said,  one  evening,  as  they  sat  about  the  supper  table,  "  Oh, 
Lord,  for  this,  thy  bounty,  make  us  thankful,"  Carradine 
surprised  them  with  his  prompt  "  Amen,"  and  he  added, 
"  That's  very  neat  and  well  done,  Johnson — don't  you  ever 
omit  it.  You  can  say  it  in  a  breath.  It's  like  sauce  to 
the  meat  ;  I  like  it.  We  haven't  brought  all  this  out  of  the 
ground  without  some  help,  I  reckon — and  I  don't  under- 
stand how  we  never  thought  of  it  before.  But  I  hope  we 
haven't  been  as  ungrateful  as  we  seemed.  Mind,  don't  you 
ever  leave  it  out  of  the  reckoning  asjain." 


136  PETER   CARRAD1NE. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

COBKESPONDENCE. 

MIRANDA  came  home  from  the  meeting  with  Sally 
Green,  in  the  Elder's  carriage,  and  she  was  busied  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day  in  making  the  house  seem  "  home- 
like." She  occupied  herself  industriously  until  the  milking 
was  done,  and  the  cows  driven  back  to  pasture.  Her  father 
would  return  with  Elder  Green  in  the  morning,  not  before  ; 
and  she  must  have  all  things  ready  for  his  comfort,  so  that 
home  should  seem  as  welcome  as  he  was  to  it. 

And  now  when  her  work  was  done,  the  house  seemed 
lonely  to  her  ;  so  she  took  the  hymn  book,  which  had  be- 
come in  the  past  days  so  great  a  treasure  to  her,  and  went 
out  to  the  big  walnut  tree,  in  whose  shade  was  a  bench  that  had 
stood  in  the  porch  for  twenty  years — but  they  had  spared  it 
from  the  house  on  an  occasion,  and  ever  since  it  had  stood 
against  the  trunk  of  the  mighty  tree.  Under  these  branches, 
it  might  be,  she  would  find  herself  returning  to  the  spirit 
which  had  seemed  to  be  lier  spirit  while  they  remained  in 
the  woods. 

But  she  was  really  in  a  mood  when  a  song  of  praise,  or  a 
burst  of  rapture,  was  quite  impossible.  She  was  tired  and 
lonely,  and  thinking  of  Senior  Jobson. 

But  surely,  it  could  not  be  that  He  whom  she  had  found 
in  the  wilderness  would  now  abandon  her.  He  would  not 
forget  her  here  !  Sally  Green  had  said  to  her,  as  they  came 
home,  that  Mr.  Collamer  was  going  back  to  Brighton  to-mor- 
row. And  she  seemed  to  be  surprised  that  Randy  did  not 
know  it. 

The  reaction  she  was  now  experiencing  was  very  natural 
— the  solitude  in  which  she  found  herself  served  merely  to 
exaggerate  the  evidences. 


CORRESPONDENCE.  137 

The  hymn  book,  she  .found  did  her  now  no  good.  While 
she  read,  her  thoughts  were  wandering ;  she  could  command 
her  heart  through  even  one  of  those  strains  of  thanksgiving, 
or  bursts  of  praise,  so  frequently  on  her  lips  during  the  past 
days. 

She  was  thinking  of  other  things  than  those  revealed  by 
faith.  Of  persons  whom  her  mortal  eyes  beheld  ;  whom 
her  mortal  hands  could  touch  ;  whose  presence  had  made 
her  heart  beat  fast  with  warm  delight  :  or  who  had  chilled 
it,  and  disturbed  and  wounded  it,  during  these  days  of  the 
meeting. 

"  I  could  be  a  better  woman,"  thought  she,  "  than  I  was 
asking  to  be  be  made.  But,  oh,  what  if  I  shall  be  a  worse 
one  than  I  was  when  I  went  up  there  !" 

She  left  the  bench  in  her  disquiet,  and  walked  along  the 
lane  to  the  farm-gate,  and  looked  out  upon  the  road.  Did 
she  look  for  Sally  Green  ? 

Had  Senior  heard  of  her  return  ?  Would  he  be  coming  up  ? 
She  had  time  now  to  think  of  him.  In  spite  of  her  promise, 
she  had  been  converted !  Could  she  compromise  at  this 
hour  ? 

The  old  farm  gate  swung  heavily  behind  her  as  she  walk- 
ed out  upon  the  road.  She  took  the  road  and  walked  slowly 
along — very  slowly  did  she  walk,  and  she  was  saying  to 
herself:  "  Why  should  I  always  be  going  against  my  will  ?" 
Then  she  retraced  the  steps  she  had  taken  towards  the 
tavern. 

Why  should  she  hasten  ?  She  was  going  nowhere.  Not 
home  as  yet ;  it  was  so  lonely  down  there. 

By-and-by  she  saw,  coming  through  the  dim  twilight,  a. 
figure  that  moved  with  directness,  and  with  purpose,  to- 
wards her.  That  was  not  Mr,  Carradine,  though  he  came 
from  the  direction  of  his  house.  And  certainly  it  was  not 
Mr.  Johnson.  It  startled  her  to  see  that  figure  striding 
along  so  rapidly,  with  such  determination,  as  one  travels 
mindful  of  the  bourne.  She  trembled ;  from  head  to  foot 
was  shaken.  Yet  this  was  not  fear.  No  man  than  Randy 
more  courageous.  There  was  not  a  road  she  would  have 
hesitated  to  walk,  in  the  vicinity  of  Martindale,  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset  alone.  Xo,  it  was  not  fear,  it  was  hope  and 
suspense  in  conflict,  that  shook  the  frame,  by  no  means 
weak  ;  that  stirred  the  spirit,  by  no  means  easily  moved. 


138  PETER   CARRADINE. 

She  thought,  at  first,  she  would  return.  She  was  going 
nowhere.  She  might  as  well  return.  She  was  tired — next 
day  she  must  be  stirring  early — and  might  better  be  asleep 
this  moment  than  wandering  about,  for  she  was  tired,  and 
that  was  the  matter  with  her. 

Still  she  kept  the  road,  until  she  and  Mr.  Collamer  could 
no  longer  doubt  who  it  was  they  were  about  to  meet.  It 
was  now  nearly  dark,  but  Miranda  could  see  the  smile  ou 
the  minister's  face  ;  the  smile  that  came  for  her,  when  he 
recognized  her  ;  and  he  thought  he  saw  she  was  glad  to 
meet  him. 

"  I  was  going  to  stop  for  a  moment  before  going  to  Brigh- 
ton," said  he.  "  I  found  I  must  go  to-night,  and  I  wanted 
to  speak  with  you  before  I  went  away." 

She  joined  him  going  down  the  road,  and  said  : — "  You 
can  rest  awhile,  sir — and  take  something  to  eat." 

"  Thank  you,  I  will,"  he  answered  ;  as  frankly  accepting 
as  she  had  given  the  invitation. 

Had  she  but  thought  to  inquire  of  herself  now,  would  not 
Miranda  have  found  that  all  the  influences  of  the  wood  were 
again  around  her  ?  Could  she  not  have  opened  the  hymn 
book  once  more,  and  would  not  the  aspiring  sentiments  un- 
folded there  have  so  borne  her  soul  aloft  that  she  could 
again  have  cried : 

"  Lend,  lend  your  wings  !   I  mount !   I  fly  ! 
Oh,  grave  where  is  thy  victory  ? 
And  where,  oh  Death,  thy  sting/' 

Mr.  Collamer  sat  down  in  the  porch  of  the  humble  farm- 
house, and  Handy  busied  herself  preparing  a  meal  for  the 
tired  man.  By-and-by,  before  she  summoned  him,  he  went 
into  the  house  and  sat  down  by  the  table,  where  there  was  a 
candle  lighted,  and  began  to  look  over  his  note  book.  While 
he  entered  some  items  on  a  fresh  page,  he  was  thinking  of 
affairs  of  quite  a  different  character.  And  he  said  as  he  put 
up  the  book  : 

"  You  get  a  little  time  to  read,  don't  you,  Miranda^ 
You're  not  always  at  work." 

"  Not  always — but  generally  speaking  busy,  Mr.  Col- 
lamer." 

"  You  don't  object  to  that,  I  dare  say.  Idleness  would 
not  agree  with  you,  I  think." 


CORRESPONDENCE.  139 

"  I  don't  mind  work  as  some  do,  maybe,"  said  she.  "  I 
have  made  your  tea  pretty  strong,  sir." 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  get  to  Brighton  before  midnight, 
on  the  strength  of  it." 

"  Couldn't  you  get  any  one  to  drive  you  over  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  no — it  isn't  necessary.  You  know  we  must  train 
ourselves,  we  ministers,  to  all  sorts  of  hardships.  I  don't 
call  the  foot-journey  one.  But  it  is  our  business  to  be  able 
to  perform  any  service  that  may  be  required  of  us." 

"  I  might  harness  the  horse  and  take  you  to  Brighton, 
easy,"  said  Kandy.  "  I  should'nt  mind  it  at  all,  but  be 
very  happy." 

The  kindness  of  the  offer  did  not  pass  unnoticed  of  Mr. 
Collamer — but  he  must  go  his  way  on  foot,  he  said,  as  he 
set  out.  He  needed  the  exercise. 

"  I  have  heard  how  industrious  you  are,"  said  he  presently, 
moving  away  from  the  table,  and  taking  Samuel  Roy's  old 
easy  chair  to  the  door,  where  he  sat  down.  "  You  are  fond 
of  reading,  I  dare  say,  when  you  have  a  pleasant  book." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  and  she  did  not  make  this  answer  because  as- 
sured that  it  was  the  reply  he  would  choose  to  hear.  "  I  like 
it  well,"  she  said.  It  was  true.  Opportunity  would  have 
made  a  student  of  her. 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "I  shall  be  able  to  give  you  some  pleas- 
ure, I  hope.  I  have  some  periodicals  at  home,  which  I  will 
send  you,  if  you  will  allow  me.  And  maybe  a  book  now  and 
then,  if  I  come  across  one  that  would  please  you.  And  will 
you  read  them  ?" 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  thank  you,  I  am  sure, 
that  you  should  take  the  trouble  !" 

"  If  you  will  only  tell  me  what  the  books  are  to  you,  what 
you  think  of  them.  Whether  you  like  them — and  why  you 
like  them,"  he  stipulated. 

"  You  will  not  be  here,"  she  answered,  surprised. 

"  But  I  shall  not  be  far  off.  Not  so  far  off  but  I  would 
hear,  if  you  would  only  tell  me,"  he  replied;  and  as  she 
looked  towards  him,  in  some  doubt  what  he  could  mean,  his 
face  shining  out  from  the  dark  shadows  of  the  corner  was 
like  the  radiant  glory  of  a  star.  As  far  off  maybe,  but  as 
real,  as  beautiful. 

"  You  know  where  you  will  be  stationed,"  said  she. 

"  Not  exactly." 


140  PETER  CARRADINE. 

"  Yet  it  will  be  in  this  neighborhood,  you  are  sure,"  she 
said — the  tone  of  his  answers  perplexed  her  still  more  than 
the  words. 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all  sure.  It  may  be  a  hundred  miles  from 
here.  But — I  hope,  that  I  shall  never,  as  long  as  I  live,  be 
so  far  away  that  I  cannot  hear  if  there  is  anything  in  your 
mind,  or  heart,  that  you  would  say  to  me.  You  do  not  seem 
to  understand  me." 

"  No — I  do  not !" 

"  I  should  wish  to  hear  from  you.  I  should  wish,  I  know, 
to  speak  to  you.  If  I  should  write  you  would  be  certain  to 
receive  the  letter.  But — would  you  answer  it  ?" 

"  No  !" 

This  answer  was  so  unexpected,  that,  for  a  moment,  dis- 
pleasure seemed  to  struggle  with  the  young  man's  surprise. 
And  he  surely  had  a  right  to  know  on  what  ground  she  re- 
fused him ! 

"  Why  will  you  not,  Miss  Miranda  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Why  then  ?"  she  answered.  "  Why  should  I  write  to 
you  ?" 

"  I  said  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  from  you. 
To  know  that  you  are  well,  and  how  you  passed  your  time. 
And  if  you  thought  well  of  the  books  you  said  I  might  send. 
And  if,  indeed,  you  received  them  in  safety." 

He  spoke  these  words  with  a  dignity,  and  a  gravity,  and 
a  friendliness  too,  that  invoked  her  honesty  ;  overcame  all 
her  scruples  of  pride. 

"  I  could  not  write  a  letter  fit  for  you  to  read,  Mr.  Colla- 
nier,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  then  !"  This  brief  exclamation  was  wonderfully  ex- 
pressive. It  was  for  such  a  reason  that  she  refused.  He 
could  manage  such  scruples,  he  believed. 

"  It  is  practice  that  makes  perfect,"  said  he.  "  I  dare  say 
you  have  not  been  accustomed  to  write  much." 

"  I  never  wrote  a  letter  in  my  life.  You  would  be  ashamed 
of  it,  if  I  should  send  you  one." 

"  Try  me,  and  see.  How  proud  you  are!  That  pride 
will  interfere  with  your  best  spiritual  growth,  Miranda. 
You  might  comply  with  my  wish,  as  a  matter  of  discipline 
if  on  no  other  ground.  Besides,  if  you  need  a  teacher,  am 
I  not  your  friend  ?  I  assure  you  I  will  not  be  a  hard  mas- 
ter. Besides,  do  you  want  me  to  think  that  you  do  not 


CORRESPONDENCE.  141 

care  to  know  what  I  am  doing  when  I  go  away  from  here  ? 
What  the  Lord's  dealings  with  me  are  ?  About  the  people 
I  shall  make  my  home  with,  and  the  work  that  occupies  me  ? 
When  I  am  gone,  shall  you  care  no  more  about  it  than  you 
do  for  all  those  thousands  we  saw  in  the  camp-meeting  ? 
Strangers  whom  we  may  never  meet  again  till  the  great  day 
of  the  Lord  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  forget  you,  sir,"  she  answered.  "  There  is 
no  danger,  sir.  If  I  never  see  or  hear  from  you  again,  I 
shall  not  forget  you."  Senior  might  have  heard  her  say  that 
without  a  misgiving. 

"  I  like  to  hear  you  say  so.  It  would  go  hard  with  me  to 
think  that  I  should  no  sooner  be  out  of  sight  than  out  of  mind. 
I  should  be  gladder  to  think  that,  when  you  remember  our 
camp-meeting,  you  would  remember  that  I  was  among  the 
brethren. 

"  I  shall  not  forget  it,  sir.  You  helped  me  very  much. 
I  shall  never  forget  how  much." 

"  But  then,  you  will  not  say  that  I  may  hear  from  you." 

"  Yes,  sir — you  shall  hear." 

"  You  will  let  the  promise  hold  you  ?" 

"  I  promise  you,"  she  repeated.  "  I  never  give  my  word 
for  one  thing,  meaning  another.  If  you  want  to  see  what  a 
poor  scholar  a  girl  can  be,  you  may.  I  never  set  up  for  a 
scholar.  When  I  took  the  school  to  teach  the  children,  I 
knew  I  could  teach  them  to  read  and  write,  and  spell — and 
geography  and  history.  But  I  never  expected  that  any  one 
would  think  I  was  a  scholar." 

"No  matter,"  said  he.  "Learning  is  not  everything. 
No  one  would  ever  call  you  an  ignorant  woman.  And  I 
think  that  you  will  find,  since  you  have  given  your  heart 
to  God,  that  there  is  a  constraint  upon  you — compelling  you 
to  improve  every  faculty  he  has  given  you.  I  dare  prophesy 
that  you  will  find  your  whole  being  quickened.  Intellect- 
ually as  well  as  spiritually,  you  will  strive  to  do  Him 
honor." 

"  Oh — you  don't  know,  sir — " 

"  Yes,  I  know  that  it  is  best  of  all  we  have  a  lowly  estima- 
tion of  ourselves.  Humility  hurts  no  one.  It  is  time  I 
should  be  going." 

He  arose,  and  buttoned  up  his  coat,  and  took  his  staff.  It 
was  now  quite  dark,  but  the  full  moon  was  rising. 


142  PETER  C1RRAJ5INE. 

"  Good-bye,  sir,"  said  Randy.  "  And  I'm  sorry  to  say 
it." 

"  Good-bye,"  he  answered.  "  And  may  God  Almighty 
bless  you  from  day  to  day — make  you  strong  in  every  good 
word  and  work.  Trust  in  all  His  blessed  promises,  Miranda. 
Let  us  seek  to  fulfil  all  His  word,  and  try  to  live  to  Him, 
wherever  we  may  be."  Here  he  paused.  He  would  do 
more  than  bless  her  by  his  priestly  office.  As  a  human 
friend  and  brother,  he  would  yet  take  leave  of  her.  "  As 
soon  as  it  is  determined  for  me  where  I  shall  locate,  and  per- 
haps before,  I  shall  send  some  word.  I  shall  direct  to  the 
Martindale  post-office  ;  to  your  address.  And  you  will  be 
so  kind  as  not  to  keep  me  long  in  doubt  about  my  letter—- 
whether you  get  it.  You  will  have  a  long  walk  to  take  to 
the  office.  The  mail  comes  in  on  Wednesdays  and  Satur- 
dnys.  Perhaps  you  will  find  me  then.  It  will  be  my  fault 
if  you  do  not.  If  you  will  let  me  speak  so  soon.  For  I  do 
not  wish  to  trouble  you,  my  dear  sister." 

"  Next  Saturday  ?"  she  mused. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  will  go  down  to  the  postmaster's." 

"  You  will  not  be  sorry  then,  if  you  do  not  inquire  for 
nothing." 

"  No — not  sorry." 

"  Good-bye,  then." 

So  they  shook  hands,  and  Mr.  Collamer  walket  up  the 
lane — passed  through  the  great  farm  gate,  and  took  the  high- 
way. 

Miranda  sat  down  on  the  door  step  and  watched  the  rising 
moon.  She  sat  there  perhaps  two  minutes.  She  then  arose 
and  put  away  the  tea  things  and  the  table — snuffed  out  the 
candle.  Next  she  resumed  her  place,  and  she  now  had  her 
hymn  book  in  her  hands. 

She  did  not  need  to  open  it  while  she  sang  the  hymn   in 
which  she  seemed  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  great  con 
tion  joining  her : 

"  Softly  now  the  light  of  day 
Fades  upon  my  sight  away  ; 
Free  from  care,  from  labor  free, 
Lord,  I  would  commune  with  thee  ! 
Thou,  whose  all  pervading  eye 

Nought  escapes,  without,  within, 
Pardon  each  infirmity, 

Open  fault  and  secret  ain." 


CORRESPONDENCE.  143 

The  night  was  clear  and  still ;  such  a  deep  quiet  over 
hill  and  valley,  that  the  sound  of  Bandy's  singing  travelled 
farther  earthward  as  well  as  heavenward,  than  she  hoped 
for. 

When  she  struck  the  notes  of  the  second  verse  ; 

"  Soon,  for  me,  the  light  of  day, 
Shall  forever  pass  away ; 
Theii,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Take  me,  Lord,  to  dwell  with  thee," 

Senior  Jobson,  who  had  gone  into  his  upper  lot  on  some  er- 
rand, caught  the  strain,  and  said  to  himself,  "  That's  Randy  ;" 
and  made  it  in  his  way  to  go  home  by  the  lane. 

She  had  finished  the  verse,  and  was  wondering  why  she 
had  not  mentioned  Senior  to  Mr.  Collamer,  and  wishing  that 
she  had  done  so,  and  questioning  whether  he  would  be 
pleased  to  know  what  she  had  promised  the  minister,  when 
the  innkeeper's  voice  rang  out : 

"  Eh  !  I  thought  it  must  be  Randy  come  home  again. 
Good  even." 

Randy  started  to  her  feet — she  was  pleased,  perhaps  ; 
great,  certainly  was  her  surprise. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  of  you,"  she  said.  "  I'm  alone. 
Father  isn't  coming  till  to-morrow.  Sit  down,  Mr.  Jobson. 
How  is  Junior's  wife  ?" 

"  So  as  to  be  moving.  So  you've  been  to  the  camp-meet- 
ing, and  got  home  again.  Anything  gained  a'  that  ?"  He 
took  the  seat  she  placed  for  him,  and  now,  would  it  be  given 
her  in  that  hour  what  to  speak  ?  If  it  had  not  been  to- 
night, this  meeting  !  If  it  had  been  delayed  till  to-morrow  ! 
She  had  been  so  occupied  with  other  thoughts — she  had  only 
begun  to  meditate  on  Senior's  view  of  these  things,  which 
she  had  been  brought  to  see  in  a  new  light.  But  here  he 
was,  and  much  must  now  be  said  that  might  easily  make 
trouble — all  depending  on  his  way  of  taking  it. 
\  "  I  enjoyed  it.  You  know  I  went  up  to  please  father." 

"  But,  by  all  accounts,  you  stayed  to  suit  yourself 
What's  become  of  the  young  loon  who's  stole  all  the  girls 
hearts.  I  mean  the  preacher.  Col — what's  his  name  ?" 

"  Collamer?  He's  gone  to  Brighton,"  answered  Randy, 
pained  to  hear  him  spoken  of  with  disrespect.  Pained,  if 
she  but  knew  it,  to  hear  him  spoken  of  at  all  by  Senior. 


144  PETER  CAERADIXK. 

"  He's  been  meddling  with  your  business,  I'm  told.  I 
laughed  when  I  heard  that.  You  couldn't  help  it,  of  course, 
any  more'n  you  could  catching  a  fever.  It's  a  certain  case 
with  women.  But,  now  I've  got  you  back,  I  ain't  alarmed. 
You  look  like  my  Randy,"  he  said,  turning  her  face  toward 
him,  and  for  a  moment  intent  on  studying  it.  "  It  might 
happen  once  in  her  life,  says  I,  to  please  the  old  man,  for 
his  heart  is  set  on  these  things.  But  Randy's  true  as  steel 
to  them  she's  give  her  word  to." 

"  Yes — you're  right  there,  Senior.  But  you  ain't  the  man 
either  that  would  be  looking  black  and  sour  on  a  woman  for 
taking  some  good  thoughts  into  her  heart,  that  would  make 
her  a  better  daughter  and  a  better  wife." 

"Only  for  the  speech  o'  people?  They'll  be  calling  the 
Spread  Eagle,  Saint's  Rest,  I  expect.  And  you'll  be  hav- 
ing all  the  priests  putting  up  with  us — and  you'll  never 
dance  any  more.  And  you'll  be  getting  up  prayer-meetings 
in  the  bar — and  Jobson  will  have  to  wear  a  white  choker. 
The  Spread  Eagle  might  as  well  go  to  roost !  You've  shot 
him  in  the  wing,  poor  bird!"  There  was  an  appeal  in  this 
lament  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  No — no — it  won't  be  so,"  said  Randy  ;  "  it  isn't  so  at 
all.  Of  course  we  shall  keep  the  tavern,  and  I  won't  inter- 
fere with  you,  if  you  won't  with  me  !  There,  is  that  a  bar- 
gain ?" 

"  Done  !"  said  Senior.  "  I  thought  you'd  act  up  to  yer 
promise.  I  didn't  believe  Randy  was  the  girl  to  wheel 
about  and  change  her  mind,  all  for  a  set  of  knavish,  psalm- 
singing,  whining  rogues,  in  a  week  and  less." 

He  spoke  with  the  exultation  of  a  man  who  has  won  a  bet 
— indeed,  since  the  tidings  of  Randy  come  down  to  him 
from  the  meeting,  he  had  been  arguing  with  himself,  and 
his  conviction  was  that  she  would  stand  by  her  promise  at 
all  hazards.  And  such  now  was  her  purpose. 

To  prove  to  him  that  it  was,  she  told  him  about  Mr.  Carra- 
dine's  visit  and  proposal  to  her  father.  If  her  conscience 
had  interposed  between  them,  and  if  expediency  had  alone 
been  consulted  in  accepting  Senior's  proposals,  here,  she 
showed  him,  was  the  opportunity  afforded  of  liquidating  the 
debt  of  the  farm — and  now  was  the  time  to  show  her  suitor 
that  believers  must  not  be  yoked  with  the  ungodly  ! 

It  has  not  for  a  moment  been  supposed  that   Randy   ever 


CORRESPONDENCE.  145 

lavished  on  her  suitor  the  love  of  which  her  heart  was  capa- 
ble. Neither  had  she  for  a  moment  been  troubled  by  a 
consciousness  of  love  withheld.  The  love  had  never  been 
drawn  out  enlightened,  enlivened.  And  her  sense  of  honor 
now  held  her  true  and  faithful  to  her  promises,  while  her 
courageous  spirit  suffered  from  no  self-suspicion,  no  fear 
that  she  should  not  be  able  to  render  all  the  service  she  had 
promised,  both  to  God  and  to  man.  Senior  had  shown  him- 
self so  ready  to  befriend  her  father — the  reluctance  her 
father  would  feel  in  accepting  such  service,  only  made  her 
the  more  grateful  for  it. 

He  seemed  to  think  the  proposal  Carradine  had  made  for 
the  land  was  one  that  proved  lais  good  will,  beyond  a  doubt 
— and  said  that,  after  all,  Peter  had  the  heart  to  do  the 
right  thing,  though  it  wasn't  easy  to  deal  with  him  ;  still  it 
was  by  no  means  lost  on  Senior  that  Randy  persisted  in  de- 
clining his  favor,  and  relying  only  upon  himself  and  the 
Spread  Eagle. 

So  they  talked  together  of  their  plans — of  the  building— 
and  the  wedding  they  should  have  on  Christmas  day,  when 
all  was  completed;  and  Senior  made  all  secure  by  saying, 
after  he  had  risen  to  go  home  : 

"  You're  in  for  it  three  hundred  dollars  to  Carradine. 
Take  that."  He  gave  her  a  little  strip  of  paper,  printed, 
and  written  over.  "  That's  our  marriage  contract,"  said 
he  ;  "  all  your  father's  to  do  is,  write  his  name  on  the  back 
and  go  to  bank  and  get  his  money,  hand  it  over  to  Carradine. 
There  now — do  you  see  how  it's  settled  ?  It's  money  lent, 
you  know,  and  Randy's  security  !  And  here's  a  little  note, 
if  your  father  object  to  the  money  ;  it's  all  ready  for  him  to 
sign  ;  and  when  he  reads  it  he'll  see  it's  a  token  that  I've 
lent  him  the  money.  But  I  don't  want  it,  you  can  keep  it 
with  your  things.  Damn  me,  I'll  trust  the  woman  I've 
asked  to  marry  me  !" 

Randy  stood  holding  the  papers  he  had  thrust  into  her 
hand. 

"  Why  you  don't — you  don't  mean  it !  You  ain't  going 
to  do  it.  Three  hundred  dollars  !  I ! — I  can't  go  security 
for't.  I'd  never  sleep  a  wink  again." 

"  I'll  resk  that,"  said  Senior  laughing.  "  If  you  can't 
settle  it  any  other  way,  though,  for  your  peace  o'  mind,  let 
him  sign  the  note — I  guess  he  won't  be  troubled  much  for 

7 


146  PETER   CARRADINE. 

collecting,  and  I  shan't  take  any  interest.  You  girl !  can't 
I  trust  you  for  that  ?  Ain't  you  willing  to  save  your  old 
father's  mind.  Just  depend  on  Senior,  and  let  him  depend 
on  you." 

"  I  never  heard  of  anything  like  that !"  said  Randy,  burst- 
ing into  tears. 

Senior  was  perplexed  now  beyond  measure.  If  there 
was  anything  in  this  world  that  could  disconcert  him  it  was 
to  have  a  crying  woman  on  his  hands.  He  could  manage  Ju- 
nior's poor  wife  ;  but  Randy's  tears  were  a  different  thing. 

"There!  there!"  said  he,  as  he  might  have  coaxed  a 
child.  "  One'd  think  I'd  done  her  an  injury.  Randy — 
Randy—" 

"  I  mustn't  let  you  do  it.  It's  kinder  than  any  one  has 
ever  been  to  you !"  She  had  in  mind  the  criticisms  and 
strictures — and  the  judgment  prophesied  against  Senior 
through  many  a  year. 

"  Why,  there  !  You're  modest — haven't  you  been  kind 
to  me  ?  You're  the  old  man's  daughter.  If  he  had  a  son — 
and  the  son  had  been  tolerably  prospered,  and  had  money 
in  the  bank  and  was  going  to  build,  wouldn't  you  think  it 
odd  now,  if  he  couldn't  spare  a  little  to  get  the  old  man  out 
of  difficulty,  special  when  he  knew  the  security  he  had  for't 
was  of  the  best  ? — no  chance  of  losing  a  cent  ?  What  would 
you  think,  my  girl  ?" 

"  I  think  it's  of  God's  leading,"  answered  she.  "I  think 
I'll  show  the  father  he's  been  mistaken  about  his  son.  And 
that  he's  a  prop  to  lean  on." 

"  You  will — you  will,"  exclaimed  Jobson,  exhibiting  a  de- 
gree of  pleasure  that  would  have  seemed  incredible  to  his 
companions.  Why  should  he  care  to  have  old  Samuel  Roy's 
opinion  modified,  or  be  covetous  of  the  honor  of  propping 
such  infirmity  ?" 

He  left  her  satisfied  with  what  he  had  found,  and  Randy 
was  persuaded  in  her  mind  that  her  promise  to  write  to  Mr. 
Collamer  was  a  matter  of  no  such  importance  that  she  should 
bring  it  up  to-night.  Mr.  Jobson  would  never  object  to  any 
means  of  improvement  she  might  see  fit  to  make  use  of. 


WHAT  AN  INKSTAND  COST.  147 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHAT      AN      INKSTAKD      COST. 

NEXT  morning  saw  Miranda  standing  in  the  back  door, 
waiting  a  moment  till  she  should  greet  the  rising  sun.  She 
had  been  up  since  day-break.  There  was  work  enough  to 
be  done — out-door  and  in-door  service  to  be  rendered  ;  ma- 
ny a  step  to  be  taken  in  her  father's  stead  ;  for  she  was 
experienced  in  farm  labor,  and  could  have  conducted  it 
with  hardly  less  skill  than  her  father,  through  one  season 
and  another. 

She  dressed  herself  in  the  dawn  light,  singing  the  while 
for  company — then  she  looked  at  the  cheque  and  the  note, 
Senior's  gifts  last  night,  and  laid  them  carefully  away. 
Kneeling  down,  she  prayed  aloud  for  him,  and  for  herself, 
and  for  Mr.  Collamer,  and  for  Sally  Green,  for  Miss  Fuller 
and  Carradine,  naming  them  all  by  name — then  she  went 
forth  from  her  chamber  and  began  her  day's  labor. 

She  did  not  expect  her  father  till  evening — and  she 
worked  with  an  energy  unusual,  even  with  her,  thinking 
that  in  the  afternoon  she  would  look  for  her  writing-book, 
and  practice  penmanship  a  little  ;  for  the  letter  she  had 
promised  weighed  upon  her  thoughts.  She  had  ten  days, 
however ;  full  ten  days  must  pass,  many  more,  it  might  be, 
before  she  should  need  to  write  to  Mr.  Oollamer.  She  would 
make  good  use  of  the  time,  and  she  seemed  to  think  that 
Senior,  as  well  as  herself,  was  concerned  in  it,  that  the 
handwriting  should  not  entirely  disgrace  her. 

But  when  work  was  off  her  hands,  and  she  had  prepared 
herself  to  sit  down  to  her  table,  behold,  the  ink  was  dried 
in  the  old  cork  inkstand — and  there  was  not  a  pen  fit  to 
make  a  mark — and  her  writing-book  was  missing  ! 

Having  satisfied  herself  of  all  these  facts,  Randy  was  not 


148  PETER   CARRADINE. 

the  girl  to  sit  down  and  regret.  She  immediately  devised 
various  methods  by  which  to  avert  the  disappointment. 
That  on  which  she  decided  was  to  go  to  Elder  Green's,  and 
borrow  of  Sally  what  she  needed.  So  she  put  on  her  sun- 
bonnet  and  set  out  for  the  brown  house  on  the  corner. 

But,  arrived  at  the  house,  to  her  surprise  she  found  the 
doors  all  locked,  and  no  signs  of  life,  except  that  Miss  Ful- 
ler's window  was  open,  and  a  pitcher  of  flowers  stood  upon 
the  table  before  the  window — it  seemed  to  testify  that  she 
had  been  there  that  day. 

Perhaps  Miss  Fuller  might  be  at  the  school-house. 

But  this  suggestion  was  unpleasant.  There  was  Senior — 
she  might  go  to  him.  But  the  house  seemed  to  be  full — 
wagons  and  horses  were  in  the  shed,  and  before  the  door  ; 
very  likely  persons  going  home  from  camp-meeting  had 
stopped  to  laugh  over  their  experiences  with  the  jovial  inn- 
keeper. 

She  must  go  home  then,  for  there  was  no  neighbor  near 
of  whom  she  could  ask  the  favor  she  desired,  or  who  could 
grant  it  if  she  asked.  There  was  the  school-house,  she 
thought  again.  Miss  Fuller  might  be  there.  It  was  not 
pleasant  to  seek  her  on  such  an  errand.  But  it  seemed 
still  worse  to  go  home  with  empty  hands,  for  she  had  set  her 
heart  on  writing  in  the  copy-book  that  afternoon. 

How  quiet  the  country  was  !  The  school-house  looked  as 
still  as  if  its  doors  and  windows,  and  the  heavy  blue  blinds, 
had  not  been  opened  that  day — as  if  no  noisy  children  had 
run  in  and  out.  Perhaps' such  was  the  fact.  She  could  not 
tell  ;  she  had  not  for  the  whole  day  heard  the  sound  of  a 
human  voice. 

So  she  went  along  the  path  that  led  to  the  little  house  ; 
but  when  she  tried  the  door  it  was  locked.  This  new  hin- 
drance provoked  her,  as  if  it  had  surprised  her.  She  want- 
ed her  writing-book  and  pen.  How  could  she  tell  where 
the  teacher  kept  her  key,  or  kept  herself  ?  Her  property 
was  within  the  building,  and  she  knew  how  she  could  re- 
cover it  without  asking  aid  of  any  one. 

In  the  rear  of  the  school-house  was  a  window — it  opened 
into  the  wood-shed,  and  the  door  that  led  into  the  shed  had 
no  lock. 

By  this  method,  then,  she  enters  the  school-house — looks 


WHAT  AN  INKSTAND  COST.  149 

around  her  with  some  sadness  and  a  sense  of  humiliation 
that  exceeds  her  sense  of  injustice.  Here  and  there  she 
observes  some  slight  changes.  There  are  maps  on  the  walls, 
and  a  great  multiplication  table — a  black-boar'd  also — and 
some  pretty  prints  of  lovely  young  faces,  nicely  framed.  It 
looks  as  if  Miss  Fuller  kept  the  school ! 

Thus  thinking,  Eandy  opened  the  teacher's  desk.  She 
sees  her  book  in  one  corner,  a  pen  lying  upon  it ;  but  be- 
fore her  hand  can  touch  her  property,  the  heavy  lid  falls 
with  a  crash.  She  thought  she  heard  a  sound — how  her 
eyes  ran  up  and  down  the  room,  searching  its  dark  cor- 
ners !  No — she  was  alone.  But  she  could  hear  her  heart 
beat,  she  had  had  such  a  fright !  She  would  rather  die 
than  be  found  under  that  roof.  The  first  time  she  saw  Miss 
Fuller  she  should  tell  her  of  it,  but  to  be  caught  there  like 
a  thief  ! 

Her  hand  was  again  lifting  the  lid,  when  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Mercy  Fuller  stood  upon  the  threshold, 
towering  as  some  awful  statue  of  Nemesis,  before  Miran- 
da's eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  lightning  had  struck  her,  and 
paralyzed  hir,  but  only  for  a  moment,  for  she  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Oh — oh — how  under  heaven  did  you  happen  to  come 
here  to  find  me  acting  like  a  thief  ?" 

"  I  wanted  a  book,"  answered  Mercy,  full  of  shame  and 
pity,  for  she  believed  as  any  other  person  might  have 
done  in  regard  to  this  intrusion,  and  the  consternation  of 
poor  Randy.  • 

"  I  never — never  shall  be  able  to  make  you  believe  that 
I  came  here  on  an  honest  woman's  errand.  I  should  think 
that  the  devil  himself  had  managed  the  business,"  exclaimed 
Randy,  and  she  dropped  into  the  teacher's  chair,  with  diffi- 
culty controlling  her  tears,  for  she  felt  that  she  had  some- 
thing to  do  besides  giving  way  to  her  tragic  sense  of 
this  complicated  moment. 

"  You  will  make  me  believe  whatever  you  choose  to  tell 
me,"  said  Mercy,  approaching  nearer.  "  I'll  take  your 
word,  of  course.  .As  I  would  that  of  any  other  Christian 
woman." 

"  You  will !"  cried  Randy,  starting  to  her  feet  again. — 
"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  I.  mean,  if  I  can.  Bat  it  seems 


150  PETER   CARRADINE. 

to  me  I'm  killed.     He  said  I  was  too  proud.      I  wonder  if 
pride  hasn't  got  a  death-blow  now." 

She  clutched  the  desk  as  if  to  prevent  herself  from  fall- 
ing— and  her  face  grew  so  pale  that  Mercy,  alarmed,  ran 
out  to  the  spring,  in  the  grove  near  by,  and  brought  back  a 
cup  of  water,  which  she  would  have  constrained  Miranda  to 
drink  ;  but  she  turned  away,  and  said  : 

"  I'll  stand  or  fall  on  my  own  ground.  Wait  a  minute. 
I  am  not  a  child.  But  I'm  shamed  to  death.  Now,  stand 
round  where  I  can  see- you  full.  I  want  to  know  if  you  be- 
lieve me  as  I  go  along.  Last  night  ma'am — I  never  thought 
I  should  be  telling  over  this  story  with  such  feelings  as  I 
have.  Perhaps  it  ought  to  be  kept  a  secret.  But  I'd  pub- 
lish it  on  the  house-tops  afore  I  would  have  you,  or  any 
other  woman,  or  child,  think  what  by  good  rights  you  think, 
seeing  me  climb  through  a  window  to  get  into  a  house  that 
was  locked  up,  and  wasn't  none  of  mine.  Thank  the  Lord  ! 
I'll  keep  my  independence  yet !  Last  night  Mr.  Collamer, 
he  stopped  in  t'  rest,  on  his  way  to  town.  I  knew  he  wasn't 
coming  back  to  Martindell,  and  he  knew  I  knew  it — and 
came  to  say  good-bye.  It  was  natural  enough  that  he  should 
wish  to,  after  what  passed  up  in  the  woods  where  I  experi- 
enced religion."  She  said  this  as  if  she  wanted  the  res- 
ponse which  Mercy  instantly  gave. 

"  Certainly — natural  enough,  as  you  say." 

"  And  he  seemed  to  think — he  is  a  kind  man — that  he 
ought  to  have  some  interest  in  me,  knowing  I  was  one  of 
his  converts.  Though  thafc  wasn't  the  way  he  looked  at  it, 
for  none  of  us,  says  he,  are  converted  to  any  man,  but  to 
faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mercy,  with  friendly  understanding. 

"  So,  as  he  was  going  away,  he  asked  me  some  things 
about  myself.  If  I  liked  to  read — and  would  I  read  some 
books  of  his  if  he  sent  them  to  me  ?  Which,  I  am  sure, 
was  very  kind  of  him,"  she  said,  as  one  who  appeals  for  his 
own  justification. 

"  Very  kind,"  was  the  answer,  spoken  with  a  sympathy 
so  full  that  it  could  not  be  mistaken.  For  Mercy  admired 
the  firmness  that  persisted  in  recounting  all  this,  to  the  ex- 
posure though  it  might  prove,  of  her  shrinking  heart. 

"  And  then  he  asked  me — " 

This  hesitation  prompted  Mercy  to  say : 


WHAT  AN  INKSTAND  COST.  151 

"  No,  Miss  Roy,  you  must  not.  I  have  no  right  to  hear 
it.  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  you  can  explain  why  you 
are  here.  I  have  no  suspicion  of  you  whatever.  How  could 
I  have  ?  Your  secrets  are  your  own." 

"  I'll  make  myself  as  clear  as  daylight  to  you,"  was  the/ 
answer.     "  I  should   be  ashamed  ever    to    look    into    your 
face  if  I  didn't  explain.     But  I'll  not  be  ashamed  after.'' 

"  Then  go  on.     I  shall  keep  your  secret." 

Miranda,  went  on,  as  if  she  had  not  heard  this  assurance. 

"  He  asked  me  if  he  should  write  to  me  ;  would  I  answer 
his  letters.  He  would  want  to  know  about  Martindell,  and 
all  the  people,  and  if  the  books  came  to  me  safely.  I  told 
him — I  am  glad  I  told  him — that  I  should  never  write  a 
letter  but  he  would  be  ashamed  to  get  from  me.  For  I  had 
never  written  a  letter.  But  I  forgot,  for  once  I  did  ;  and  I 
remember  well  what  it  cost  me.  But  he  encouraged  me  to 
think  he .  would  be  glad  to  get  the  letter  ;  and  practice 
would  make  me  perfect,  as  it  did  other  people,  he  said.  So 
I  promised.  And  to-day  I  was  thinking,  while  I  was  at 
work,  I  would  come  down  and  borrow  of  Sally  Green,  for  I 
have  lost  my  copy-book,  and  the  ink  was  dried  up,  and  I  had 
no  pen.  I  knew  that  Sally  would  not  object  to  lending  till 
I  could  get  down  to  Brighton.  But  when  I  went  down  to 
the  house  I  found  it  was  locked  up — and  I  was  more  disap- 
pointed than  I  ever  was,  I  think.  I  ought  to  have  gone 
home.  But  then  I  remembered  the  school-house — and 
where  was  the  harm  clone,  for  all  I  could  see,  if  I  did  not 
find  my  things,  I  could  pay  for  apy  damage.  So  I  came 
down  here,  and  the  next  thing  set  up  against  me  was  the 
door  locked.  Then  I  was  determined  I  wouldn't  go  back, 
and  I  remembered  the  old  window.  If  I  had  broken  my 
neck  getting  through,  it  would  have  served  me  right.  And 
I  came  to  your  desk,  Miss  Fuller,  for  I  thought  I  could  bor- 
row of  you,  and  tell  you  in  the  morning — for  I  meant  to 
bring  it  back." 

"  If  you  will  take  the  pen  and  ink,  and  keep  it,  I  will 
thank  you,"  said  Mercy.  "  But  unless  you  do,  I  shall  never 
excuse  myself  for  wondering  a  single  instant  what  it  could 
mean  when  I  opened  the  door  and  saw  you.  Why  can  you 
and  I  not  be  good  friends  ?  We  have  taken  a  good  many 
steps  toward  it  to-day,  I  think.  Let  this  pen  and  inkstand 
be  the  evidence  of  our  contract." 


152  PETER   CARRADINE. 

She  fairly  urged  the  cedar  pen-holder,  with  its  bright 
steel  pen,  and  the  little  inkstand,  into  Miranda's  hands. 

"  If  you  are  not  accustomed  to  writing,"  said  she,  "  I 
am.  Would  it  be  any  loss,  or  an  offence,  if  I  should  give 
you  direction  now  and  then  ?  I  only  came  here  for  a 
book  ;  if  you  will  wait,  we  can  go  back  together.  I  think 
Sally  will  be  home  by  this  time  ;  she  went  down  to  Brighton 
this  afternoon.  Here  is  your  copy-book.  I  kept  it  iu  the 
desk,  it  seems,  without  knowing  it." 

But,  as  they  walked  together  towards  Elder  Green's,  Mi- 
randa saw  the  Elder's  carriage  coming  over  the  hill,  and 
knew  her  father  must  be  now  at  home.  So  she  said,  when 
they  came  to  a  point  where  the  path  struck  into  the  high- 
way : 

"  I  shall  never  forget  this  day,  if  I  live  as  long  as  Methu- 
selah. I  am  going  to  show  you  that  I  can  put  down  my 
pride.  I  will  let  you  look  at  my  copy-book,  and  you  will 
know  then  how  much  I  feel  like  writing  a  letter  to  Mr.  Col- 
lamer." 

"  But  you  promised,"  said  Mercy. 

"  Yes — I  shall  write  the  letter.  He  shall  see  exactly 
how  it  is." 

"  That's  pride  too,"  said  Mercy;  "not  the  worst  kind, 
though." 

"  It  is.  It's  pride.  I  wish — Miss  Fuller,  I  wish  you 
would  pray  it  might  be  taken  out  of  me." 

"  Is  not  that  your  own  prayer  1  Do  you  suppose  our 
Heavenly  Father  turns  his^face  away  from  us,  that  he  may 
not  see  what  we  desire  1  He  hears  you  when  he  knows 
that  you  would  indeed  be  humble,  as  becomes  every  hu- 
man creature.  I  know  that  He  will  bless  you.  But  I  will 
ask  it  of  Him.  Then  we  must  indeed  be  friends  if  we  pray 
for  each  other  to  Him." 

"  Each  other  !"  exclaimed  Randy.     "  I  for  you  !" 
Mercy  did  not  answer,  but  Randy,  looking  at  her  stead- 
fastly, said  again,  not  soeaking  this  time  as  before  : 

"i  will." 

So  ended  the  hunt  for  a  medium — spirit  not  seeming  suf 
ficient.  The  letters  should  have  a  meaning  surely — costing 
such  a  price,  not  mentioning  the  postage. 


WHAT  AN  INKSTAND  COST.  153 

I  have,  of  course,  no  words  adequate  to  represent  the 
state  of  Miranda's  mind,  either  as  she  walked  along  the  path 
that  led  towards  home,  or  when,  after  two  hours'  steady  talk 
with  her  father,  she  sat  in  her  room  alone,  and  made  that 
first  determinate  essay  with  pen,  ink  and  paper. 

She  wrote  in  the  copy-book  one  line.  No  more.  Her 
hand  trembled  too  much,  her  heart  beat  too  violently.  So 
she  wiped  the  pen,  closed  the  inkstand,  and  put  up  the  book 
sat  down  before  the  window,  with  her  back  to  it,  and  gazed 
into  darkness,  and  thought  over  her  success  in  speaking  for 
Senior,  for  her  father  had  consented  to  talk  with  him  next 
day  ! 

Impetuous  had  been  the  action  of  Miranda's  life  ;  impul- 
sive, fickle,  not  quite  reliable,  she  had  seemed  to  be.  Vio- 
lence had  sometimes  marked  her  conduct.  Few  and  un- 
certain, thus  far,  had  been  the  demonstrations  of  her  love. 
But  now  the  strong  tide  of  feeling  flowed  with  steady  cer- 
tainty in  one  direction.  As  she  had  never  seen  a  woman 
who  equalled  Mercy  Fuller,  so  sho  had  never  loved  one  as 
she  now  loved  her.  She  longed  to  demonstrate  the  fact. 

She  went  over  the  scene  in  which  she  had  been  enacting 
a  part  so  extraordinary.  At  every  point  of  it  she  could  re- 
call some  word  or  look  of  grace — or  of  tender  kindness,  ex- 
ceeding by  so  much  everything  she  had  rendered  or  re- 
ceived heretofore.  Grateful,  beyond  any  sense  of  gratitude 
of  which  she  was  ever  before  cognizant,  she  felt  towards 
Mercy.  It  was  a  relief  to  know  that  she  understood  about 
this  business  of  the  correspondence.  She  felt  that,  some- 
how, she  was  safer.  She  would  keep  nothing  from  her 
henceforth.  She  meant  to  be  a  friend.  To  use  this  prof- 
fered friendship  to  its  utmost  highest  use.  And,  as  she 
thought,  she  had  really  some  adequate  sense  of  what  that 
highest  use  might  be. 

Oh,  it  were  something  rare  and  fine  to  hear  often  such  a 
voice  ? — to  feel  often  under  such  a  gaze  !  To  be  counselled 
by  such  serenity  and  wisdom. 

How  willing  was  she  to  come  into  such  subjection  as  com- 
munion with  this  kind  of  character  supposed  !  What  aid, 
and  help,  and  joy  might  she  not  anticipate  from  it ! 

7* 


154  PETER    CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DIVERS    GIFTS,     AND    WATS     OF     RECEIVING. 

THE  next  morning  Samuel  Roy  was  in  bis  barn  at  work, 
and  Handy  in  the  sbed  cburning.  Sally  Green  appeared. 

"  I  thought  I  would  corue  up  and  see  what  there  is  left 
of  you,"  said  she.  "  It  isn't  so  easy  to  bring  yourself  round 
to  business  after  such  a  week." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Randy,  continuing  her  work,  while 
Sally  sat  down  on  the  kitchen  steps,  "  I  found  so  much  to  do 
when  I  got  back,  I  couldn't  see  my  way  clear  yesterday.  It 
was  hard  to  keep  from  shying  off  the  treadmill." 

"  Plenty  to  do,  of  course — we  are  to  have  the  teacher 
back  to-day.  I  don't  much  mind  that,  though,"  said  Sally. 
"  She  takes  care  of  herself  very  well." 

"  You  ought  to  be  glad,  I  think.  Any  one  that  lodges 
her  will  be  well  paid  for  the  pains,"  said  Randy,  to  Sally's 
amazement.  To  her  displeasure  also  ;  it  was  like  Randy  to 
take  religion  in  this  exaggerated  fashion,  and  slay  herself  on 
the  sword  of  duty. 

"  Nobody  knows  anything  about  her,  "  she  answered 
coldly  ;  "  she  seems  very  well.  But  I  don't  know  as  it's 
so  much  of  a  favor.  Besides  we  haven't  any  children  to  send 
to  the  school !  It's  nothing  but  bearing  other  people's  bur- 
dens. We  can't  help  that  of  course." 

"  I  wish  she  would  come  and  stay  with  me.  I  do  indeed. 
I  like  her  well,"  said  Randy  with  a  spirit  which  Sally  could 
not  help  seeing  was  genuine  ;  and  she  liked  it  none  the  bet- 
ter. 

"  Why  won't  you  have  her  here  to  stay,  then  ?"  asked  she, 
incredulous. 


DIVERS  GIFTS.  155 

"  If  I  could  make  it  as  pleasant  for  her  as  you  can,  I 
wouldn't  stop  to  think  twice,"  answered  Miranda.  And  her 
friend  thought,  "  True  enough — she  is  converted." 

"  I  was  down  to  Brighton  yesterday,"  said  Sally.  "  I  saw 
Mr.  Collamer  there — he  walked  down  from  Hickie's." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  replied  Randy. 

"  Why,  did  you  see  him  ?" 

"  Yes — he  was  on  his  way.  •  He  did  not  mind  the  jour- 
Bey." 

Sally's  face  changed.  She  felt  her  pleasure  lessen  great- 
ly, in  what  she  had  to  say. 

"  I  saw  him  in  a  shop,  and  he  had  these  two  hymn  books — 
and  one  he  gave  to  me  and  the  other  is  for  you  !  He  wrote 
our  names  inside.  And  he  said  it  was  in  remembrance  of 
the  happy  days  we  spent  at  the  meeting  together." 

Randy  left  the  churn,  and  wiped  her  hands,  and  took  the 
hymn  book  Sally  gave  her  ;  but  she  laid  it  on  a  shelf  without 
opening  it. 

"  Why  don't  you  look  at  your  name,  where  he  wrote  it," 
asked  Sally,  turning  her  eyes  full  on  Miranda,  more  than 
ever  doubting  and  suspicious. 

"  So  I  will,"  she  answered  ;  and  she  took  the  little  book 
and  read.  "  J.  Collamer,  to  his  friend  Miranda  Roy,  in  re- 
membrance of  June  1,  1840." 

"  Now  you  may  read  mine,"  said  Sally — and  she  thrust 
her  volume  before  the  eyes  of  her  friend,  who,  for  a  moment 
seemed  unable  to  comprehend  what  was  before  her. 

"  To  Sally  Green,  with  the  best  wishes  of  her  friend, 
Joseph  Gollamer."  Then  followed  the  same  date,  June  1st, 
the  date  of  an  eventful  day  of  the  camp-meeting,  written 
with  a  flourish  that  made  the  page  conspicuous. 

The.  difference  of  phraseology,  still  more  the  difference  of 
penmanship,  had  evidently  produced  an  impression  on  the 
mind  of  Sally. 

"  He  is  going  to  write  to  father  when  he  is  located,"  said 
she  ;  "  and — "  She  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Shall  you  use  your  book  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  always  used  my  mother's — but  it  hasn't  all  the  hymns 
in  it — not  all  we  sang  at  the  meeting,"  answered  Miranda. 
"  This  one  has  better  print,  and  how  smooth  and  white  the 
paper  is  !"  She  laid  the  open  page  against  her  cheek.  "  It 
has  the  feel  of  satin,"  said  she. 


156  PETER   CAIIRADINE. 

"  I  shall  never  use  any  other  book — that's  what  he  said  he 
hoped." 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Sally — but  she  did  not  add  that  she  had 
first  told  him  that  it  was  the  only  book  she  should  now  use. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  what  he  gave  them  to  us  for — use,'' 
said  Randy  ingeniously. 

"  Are  you  sorry  to  have  him  gone,  Randy  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  He  will  be  coming  back." 

"  But  then  his  work  will  lead  him  to  very  different  places 
from  this,  Sally — such  a  man  !" 

"  I  suppose  he  is  going  to  make  a  great  preacher.  That's 
what  they  all  say.  You  saw  there  wasn't  a  man  up  there  to 
the  meeting  that  could  begin  with  him.  How  lovely  he 
looked." 

"  He  seemed  to  show  me  the  truth  clearer  than  anybody 
else — it  seemed  easier  to  think  right,  and  to  do  right,  when 
hz  was  near  to  put  you  in  the  way — or  clear  up  difficulties — 
show  you  your  mistakes,"  said  Randy,  thoughtfully  ;  and  she 
was  churning  at  a  rate  something  short  of  imperative  in  its 
demands  on  the  butter.  "  But,  lovely  1  it  was  terrible  to 
see  him  I  thought." 

"  I  guess  we  all  felt  the  same  way  about  that,"  said  Sally. 
"  Do  you  suppose — I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  woman  he  will 
marry  !  I  think  Miss  Fuller  would  just  suit  him — don't 
you  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  married  her  to  Mr.  Carradine  the  other 
day." 

"  Of  course  I  did — people  never  marry  where  they  ought 
to,  it  is  said.  /  don't  know  anything  about  it  Don't  you 
think,  though,  they  would  make  a  good  match  ?" 

"  Who  ?" 

"  Who  ? — I  just  said.  The  minister  and  Miss  Fuller. 
What's  her  name — Mercy." 

"  No,"  said  Randy. 

"  Why  not !" 

"  Because  they  don't  seem  to  be  alike.  Besides  they  don't 
seem  to  think  alike.  I  suppose  that's  what  I  mean  by  say- 
ing they're  not  alike.  They  are  both  quiet  persons,  and 
they  know  a  great  deal  about  the  world,  of  course.  But 
they  would  never  be  married." 


DIVERS  GIFTS.  157 

"  You  know  a  good  deal  about  it !"  said  Sally,  laughing. 
"  Of  course  she'll  have  to  take  Mr.  the  hedgehog,  because  I 
said  so.  According  to  that  way  of  doing  things,  I  guess  you 
had  better  take  Mr.  Collamer." 

Did  Sally  see  the  sudden  start  that  answered  to  this  pro- 
position ?  Did  she  see  the  sudden  flushing  of  the  face  be- 
fore her  ?  To  what  purpose  were  her  eyes  fixed  so  intently 
on  Miranda,  if  not  to  see,  to  note,  and  to  remember  ? 

"  Don't  talk  so,"  answered  Randy,  speaking  as  if  she  had 
been  pained. 

"  I  think,''  said  Sally,  indifferently,  as  if  it  was  of  the 
merest  speculation  that  she  spoke,  and  no  one  could  possibly 
be  concerned  in  the  conclusions  she  arrived  at,  "  he  will 
want  a  wife  who  has  money.  He  is  so  free — that's  what 
father  thinks — he's  very  free  with  his  money.  He  has 
a  little,  but  it  can't  last  forever,  the  way  he  uses  it. 
He  has  such  liberal  notions,  it  would  be  misery  to  him  to  be 
married  to  a  poor  woman.  When  he  gets  to  be  a  great  man, 
he  will  need  it  more  and  more.  He  makes  so  many  friends 
wherever  he  goes,  and  if  he  buys  hymn  books  for  all  the 
girls  he  sees — I  suppose  he  does,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Very  likely." 

"  If  I  thought  he  did,  I'd  never  look  into  mine  then  !" 
said  Sally,  in  a  pet ;  but  she  laughed  when  Randy  looked  at 
her  astonished. 

"  You  would  not  ?"  said  Randy. 

"  No  indeed.  I  would  have  liked  it  better  if — if  he  had 
n't  said  anything  about  you,  of  course." 

"  Would  you,  Sally,  truly  ?" 

"  Would  I  ?     Ask  yourself.     Would  you  V 

"  No,  I  think  not.     I  hope  not,  surely.     Why  should  I  ?" 

"  Randy,  you  are  going  to  be  too  good,  I  see.  That's 
you,  no  half-way  about  it.  That's  what  grandma  said  when 
she  prophesied  about  you — it's  a  true  daughter  of  Samuel 
Roy  that  you  have  got  to  be.  Are  you  going  to  do  every- 
thing to  suit  everybody  for  the  rest  of  your  life  ?  Suppose 
I  asked  you  to  send  back  that  hymn-book  to  Mr.  Collamer. 
Would  you  do  that  ?"  Again  Sally's  looks,  as  she  regarded 
Randy,  belied  the  words  and  tone  in  which  she  spoke.  Un- 
derneath the  bantering  inquisitiveness  was  a  more  serious 
curiosity. 

"  No,"  answered  Miranda. 


158  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"  Oh  ?     Why  not  ?" 

"  Because  I  did  not  ask  him  for  it.  And  it  pleased  him 
to  send  it  to  me.  So  I  shall  use  it  just  as  I  have  used  my 
mother's.  And  I  am  glad  he  sent  it.  I  shall  learn  some 
of  the  hymns  too.  And  I  mean  to  learn  all  those  we  sung 
up  there  so  often  in  the  woods." 

The  serious,  mild  manner  in  which  this  was  spoken, 
seemed  to  produce  its  effects  on  Sally.  She  said  : 

"  You're  Randy  yet !  You're  not  going  to  be  grandma's 
kind — nor  your  father's  either,  I  guess.  You  won't  be  an 
awful  perfect  saint !" 

"  Mind  that  you,  for  your  part,  Sally,  take  your  mother 
for  an  example.  There's  no  such  woman  in  these  parts  as 
Huldah  Green.  I  didn't  see  a  single  face  up  there  that 
looked  like  hers.  But  I  expect  your  grandma  is  more  of 
what  we  call  a  praying  woman." 

"  I'm  crazy  to  stay  here,  Randy.  But  there — you've  got 
your  hymn-book.  I  couldn't  sleep  half  the  night  for  think- 
ing I  must  come  up  so  early  to  bring  it  to  you,  and  wonder- 
ing  what  you'd  say  about  it.  What  will  you  do  all  day  ?" 

"  I've  work  enough  to  keep  me  going  on  till  Saturday 
night." 

"  You  used  to  be  always  reading.  She  seems  to  have  a 
lot  of  books  on  her  table  ;  if  you  would  like  to  come  down 
some  time,  you  can  look  at  them." 

"  Some  time,  when  she  ia  at  home,  I  will  come  down," 
said  Randy. 


Miranda  went  on  churning,  thinking  as  she  did  so,  "What 
could  Sally  mean  1" 

Sally  returned  home  questioning  as  doubtfully,  "  What's 
Randy  thinking  of  ?"  And  it  seemed  as  if  something  had 
come  between  them  to  make  unlooked-for  and  unwelcome 
revelations. 


It  came  to  pass  that  Huldah  Green's  thoughts  did  revolve 
around  the  teacher  during  the  days  of  her  stay  with  them, 
in  such  a  way  that  she  often  found  herself,  while  Mercy 
was  at  school,  conducting  her  labors  with  a  view  to  secur- 
ing a  few  minutes  of  uninterrupted  chat  with  her.  The 


DIVERS  GIFTS.  159 

duties  which  occupied  her  days  must  by  no  means  be  neg- 
lected— but  they  could  be  arranged  with  foresight,  and 
completed  perhaps  in  less  time  than  they  generally  required. 
Even  habit  must  surrender  before  a  sufficient  cause.  She 
was  drawn,  and  day  by  day  became  more  conscious  of  the 
drawing,  towards  Mercy,  by  a  subtle,  irresistible  influence. 
One  afternoon,  the  teacher  came  home  from  school  and 
found  the  family  in  the  midst  of  a  consultation  which  seemed 
to  have  provoked  a  good  deal  of  unpleasant  feeling. 

She  was  not  taken  into  the  counsel  of  any  portion  of  the 
household  ;  and  Huldah  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  who  did 
not  actually  avoid  her  when  (he  family  had  dispersed.  So 
far  from  avoiding  her,  she  took  her  knitting  work  and  went 
into  the  large  east  room,  the  pleasant  family  room,  and  sat 
down  there  by  the  window,  and  when  she  saw  Mercy  passing 
the  door,  she  called  her  in. 

As  they  sat  talking  quietly  together,  Huldah  suddenly 
laid  down  her  knitting  work,  and  said  the  very  words  she 
had  hindered  herself  from  uttering,  under  all  provocation, 
since  the  beginning  of  her  married  life. 

"  When  you  are  thinking  to  get  married,  Miss  Fuller, 
don't  marry  a  widower  ;  don't  marry  a  man  a  great  deal  old- 
er than  yourself  too.  Those  are  my  advice." 
"  I  will  try  to  recollect,"  Mercy  replied. 
"  Yes,  you  smile — but.  Well  I  suppose  one  may  as  well, 
if  he  has  a  good  conscience  in  the  matter.  I  ain't  partial  to 
tears  myself.  I  was  never  a  crying  child,  and  I  can't  be  a 
crying  woman.  I  suppose  one  has  to  learn  the  trick  young. 
But  there  seems  to  be  a  deal  of  trouble  in  the  world,  of  one 
kind  and  another,  Miss  Fuller.  People  wouldn't  give  me 
credit  for  much  experimental  knowledge  ;  but  still  I'm  not 
so  dead  ignorant  of  it.  And  that  is  the  way  of  Providence 
to  lead  us.  There  would  be  no  holding  of  us  in,  with  bit 
and  bridle  even,  I  expect,  if  it  wasn't  for  our  experience, 
which  humbles  us  and  keeps  us  low." 

"  I  think  a  good  heart,   truly  happy,    would   not   be    the 
proud  heart  He  holds  far  off,"  said  Alercy. 

"  You  don't   expect  He  meant  us  to  be  truly  happy,  any 
one  of  us." 

"  Why  yes,  indeed  !" 

"  Are  you  a  happy  woman  ?"  asked  Huldah.      If  she  had 


160  PETER  CARRADINE. 

thought  a  moment,  she  would  not  have  asked  the  question. 
But  she  had  asked,  and  Mercy  answered  : 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.     Very  nearly,  Mrs.  Green." 

"  You  are  younger  than  I  am.  I  have  looked  about  ;  I 
have  thought  it  over  a  good  deal.  We  all  have  our  burdens 
which  to  cast  on  the  Lord,  and  find  him  sufficient." 

"  Well  for  us  that  it  is  so,"  responded  Mercy,  of  whom 
o'mously  nothing  but  response  was  now  required. 

"  I  have  been  married  now  this  thirteen  years.  Sally 
Green  was  seven  years  old  when  I  came  to  this  house,  and 
the  Elder  gave  her  to  me,  and  bid  me  be  tender  of  her.  I 
suppose,  Miss  Fuller,  if  I  had  nursed  and  brought  up  a 
house  full  of  my  own,  they  wouldn't  have  caused  me  the 
trouble  that  child  has.  Not  that  she's  different  from  other 
children  ;  but  I  was  always  so  afeared  of  doing  wrong  by 
her  !  I  wanted  to  do  right.  I  felt  so  sorry  for  the  little 
creatur  whose  own  mother  was  dead  and  buried.  And  that 
was  one  great  reason  why  I  come.  The  Elder  wanted  me. 
And  I  knew  if  I  didn't  take  him,  then  some  other  girl 
would,  and  maybe  for  his  money,  who  wouldn't  be  tender  of 
the  little  girl.  Besides  I  had  been  a  friend  of  her  mother's. 
But  Sally  isn't  like  her  mother.  Sometimes  I  think  it 
would  have  been  better  for  all  if  I  had  kept  outside  the 
house.  But  I  did  it  thinking  it  was  for  the  best,  and  a 
leading  of  the  Lord.  Which  the  Elder  said  it  clearly  was." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Mercy. 

Huldah  looked  up  so  brightly,  and  seemed  so  thankful  for 
the  encouragement  there  was  in  this  assurance,  as  to  prove 
that  it  was  well  deserved.  But  a  shadow  crossed  her  face 
the  moment  after,  as  she  went  on. 

';  There  has  been  many  a  time  when,  if  she  had  been  my 
own,  I  would  have  done  differently  by  her  than  I  did  ;  but 
then  somebody  would  have  thought  me  cruel ;  and  it  was 
the  child's  loss,  to  my  mind,  when  she  got  off  many  a  time 
with  just  a  correcting  word,  and  hardly  that  sometimes  ;  for 
it  was  the  Elder's  belief  that  the  Holy  Spirit  would  do  all 
the  work,  when  she  got  beyond  us,  for  she  was  the  child  of 
prayer,  says  he.  She  might  have  been  much  different,  it 
seems  to  me.  For  now  that  she  has  got  religion,  it's  on 
such  contrary  ways  the  Spirit  has  to  work,  and  there  hasn't 
been  a  miracle  performed  for  her  yet.  There's  something 
wrong  about  it  somewhere.  I  don't  want  to  seem  blasphe- 


DIVERS  GIFTS.  161 

mous,  as  I'm  sure  you'll  believe,  Miss  Fuller  ;  but  you  know 
a  great  deal,  and  it  seems  to  me  you'll  see  it  clear  ;  if  she'd 
been  trained  right  there  wouldn't  have  been  no  occasion  for 
any  trouble  about  her.  I  don't  see  that  it's  easily  done, 
when  any  one  has  always  had  his  own  way  in  everything,  to 
come  round  and  see  the  right  truth  about  giving  up  's  way 
to  God.  I'm  talking  about  Sally  Green  !  She's  my  child  ! 
As  good  as  mine,  every  bit  and  grain  ;  but  I  feel  to  think 
the  Lord  won't  lay  it  up  against  me  if  I  chose  to  keep  peace 
in  the  house  instead  of  setting  'em  all  up  against  me  in  a 
body.  But  I've  made  a  mistake  somewhere,  for  it's  come 
round,  what  I  feared,  by  being  too  kind — just  as  it  was  go- 
ing to,  if  I  had  gone  the  other  way.  Did  you  ever  think  one 
way  was  about  as  dangerous  as  another,  being  overly  kind, 
as  bad  as  overly  cruel  ?" 

"  There  must  be  reason  in  all  things,"  said  Mercy,  feeling 
that  she  was  not  called  on  to  say  much.  It  was  n't  counsel 
but  expression,  vent  of  her  own  thoughts,  that  Huldah 
wanted. 

"The  very  words  I've  had  on  my  tongue's  end  a  thousand 
times,"  said  she.  "  You  don't  think  I  am  a  talking  wo- 
man ?  It's  rare  that  I  have  any  words.  I've  worked  hard, 
and  found  it  was  the  best  thing.  If  I'd  nothing  to  do  but  sit 
and  fold  my  hands,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  me  !  And 
there  isn't  the  man  or  woman  in  the  town  of  Martindell  can 
say  I  ever  made  the  first  complaint  against  the  Elder.  But 
there's  been  a  mistake  somewhere,  and  I'm  free  to  own  it; 
because,  for  one  thing,  I  think  if  you  see  anything  in  Sally 
goes  against  your  sense  of  right,  she  being  a  member,  you 
would  speak  to  her  !  You  needn't  tell  me  that  you've  done 
it.  It's  for  her.  For  her  mother's  sake,  whose  eyes  I've 
felt  have  been  watching  me  these  thirteen  years.  And  if 
you  could  know  how  I've  prayed  to  her  to  show  me  what 
she'd  have  me  to  do  for  Sally's  sake  !  For  a  mother's  heart, 
I  thought,  could  show  me  best  of  all — and  I  never  had  a 
child  of  my  own.  Sometimes  I've  longed  for  it — but  I  thank 
God  !  things  are  so.  For  if  they  had  been  otherways,  they 
might  have  been  worse.  If  I'd  known  better  what  a  mo- 
ther's duty  was,  I  might  have  performed  it  worse,  and  been 
like  those  who,  after  they're  exalted  to  heaven  in  privileges, 
show  they're  only  fit  to  be  cast  down  to  hell.  It's  all  a  cu- 


162  PETER  CARRADINE. 

rious  business — but  it  would  take  an  angel  for  a  woman  to 
do  her  duty  by  a  widower  and  his  children." 

"  I  believe  that,"  said  Mercy.  "  And  I'll  help  you  if  I 
can.  Martindale,  for  all  its  pleasant  farm  lands,  so  pretty 
and  quiet,  seems  to  be  very  much  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
Mrs.  Green." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  she,  "  it's  wisdom  is  the  making  of  us 
all.  And  I  don't  feel  to  believe  we  are  wiser  than  our  gen- 
eration, here  in  Martindell.  I  hope,  Miss  Fuller,  that  I  am 
not  a  proud  woman,  set  up  with  notions  because  the  Elder 
is  what  you'd  call  a  rich  man  for  a  farmer — "  Again  she 
hesitated,  but  seemed  to  think  she*  had  gone  too  far  to  re- 
treat, for  she  continued  hurriedly,  though  her  manner  be- 
came more  composed  and  assured  as  she  went  on.  "  1 
know  that  the  most  valleyable  men  in  the  country  have 
worked  their  way  up — but  there's  a  difference — and  there's 
some  that  havn't  got  it  in  them  to  make  men  of  theirselves. 
I  know  that,  no  matter  how  poor  a  man,  if  he  was  a  right 
down  noble  fellow,  I  wouldn't  object  to  giving  Sally  Green 
to  him.  But  it's  to  be  happy  people  are  looking  for  when 
they  set  up  for  themselves — they  must  be  good  if  they  are 
to  be  happy,  I  expect.  And  that  is  the  reason  that,  for 
thinking  of  what  will  come  on  Sally  if  she  keeps  on  with 
Oliver  Savage,  the  peace  of  my  life  is  gone." 

"  And  who  is  Oliver  Savage  ?"  asked  Miss  Fuller. 

"  He's  a  widow's  son  that  lives  up  the  road  beyond  Peter 
Carradine's.  He's  harvested  now  three  years  with  Elder 
Green.  He  is  not  the  man,  Miss  Fuller,  not  the  man  for 
Sally.  He  wouldn't  do  for  a  son  to  the  Elder.  You 
wouldn't  think,  Miss  Fuller,  that  Sally  could  look  at  him, 
and  think  of  loving  him,  and  living  all  her  life  with  him. 
But  it's  coming  to  that !  it's  coming  to  that !  There's  no- 
thing short  that  I  can  see.  Talking's  no  good.  I  dursent 
speak  a  word,  for  it's  the  thing  that's  hardest  to  get  that 
people  set  their  hearts  on  having  mostly.  And  she  would 
never  believe  that  her  father  and  I  cared  more  for  her  hap- 
piness than  for  anything  else  in  this  life — for  we  are  getting 
old,  and  we  must  leave  all — and  she  will  be  left,  and  must 
stand  for  herself,  and  if  she  hasn't  her  husband  to  lean  on, 
and  work  with,  and  look  to,  and  love  !" 

"  If  she  were  never  married  at  all,   Mrs.  Green,   I   don't 


DIVERS  GIFTS.  163 

see  that  it  would  be  the  most  dreadful  thing  in  the  world/' 
said  Mercy. 

"  Not  by  a  great  deal,  Miss  Fuller  !  But  she  will  be 
married.  It's  in  the  nature  of  things.  Her  father  is  a  rich 
man,  and  a  good  man,  and  she  is  his  only  daughter,  and  not 
a  bad-looking  girl — " 

"  She  is  very  pretty." 

"  Yes,  we  think  so.  Then,  if  she  must  be  married,  isn't 
it  the  chief  thing  that  she  should  be  happy  ?" 

"  Yes — surely." 

"  Oliver  Savage  will  make  her  miserable.  He'll  ruin 
Sally.  And  she'll  ruin  him  !  But  they  don't  see  it.  You 
can't  make  'em  see  it.  You  can't  think  how  it  worried  me 
up  there  at  the  meeting.  And  I  am  not  a  worrying  woman. 
But  I  couldn't  get  it  out  of  my  mind  so  as  to  enjoy  religion 
as  I  have.  But  I  tried  to  think  what  I  would  if  Jesus  was 
on  earth,  and  I  knew  he  was  just  as  near  as  if  we  could  see 
him. — and  so  I  asked  him  to  help  us — but,  Miss  Fuller,  such 
things  seem  to  run  their  course.  And  I've  the  misgiving 
that,  after  we  have  prayed  our  bes't,  we  don't  get  just  for 
the  asking  ;  if  Sally  should  take  Oliver,  her  father  never 
will  consent  to  it,  that  would  not  be  the  Saviour's  pleasure. 
I  cannot  think  it  would  be.  It  seems  to  be  too  late.  Some- 
times I  feel  as  if  we  would  all  go  to  destruction  if  it  did 
happen  and — .  He  is  a  carousing  fellow.  That's  his  repu- 
tation. I  know  he  was  very  serious  at  the  meeting.  He 
was  brought  in  at  the  revival,  but  the  last  time  he  was  here 
he  didn't  look  right  to  me,  as  if  he  was  sober  and  diligent, 
serving  the  Lord.  If  he  was  set  up — he  is  a  dreadful  vain 
fellow — I'm  not  slandering !  I  want  you  should  see  Oliver 
— if  he  was  set  up  once  into  a  fortune  like,  not  so  slaving 
poor  as  he  has  always  been,  I'm  afraid  to  think  what  he 
would  come  to.  He  curls  his  hair  and  dresses  in  a  white 
vest  on  Sunday — you  may  know  him  by  that  token.  It 
isn't  because  he  is  too  neat  and  nice,  but  because  he  thinks 
so  much  of  himself — " 

There  was  a  supplement  to  this  conversation,  which  was 
broken  off  by  the  entrance  of  the  young  lady  in  question. 
She  came  through  the  front  door,  and  so  into  the  large  sit- 
ting-room of  the  many  windows  and  the  yellow  painted  floor. 
She  seemed  a  good  deal  excited,  and  fluttered  about  several 
moments  before  she  spoke,  or  seemed  likely  to  alight.  But 


164  PETER  CARRADINE. 

when  her  mother  put  down  her  knitting-work,   and   said   to 
Mercy  that  she  would  bring  a  light,  Sally  said  : 

"  Mother,  do  you  think  Oliver  has  been  asking  me  to  go 
to  Brighton  with  him  for  the  Fourth  !" 

"  H'm,"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "  Oliver  ? — Oliver  Savage  ? 
"What  did  you  say  to  him,  Sally  ?" 

"  I  told  him,  if  I  went,  that  I  should  go  with  father." 

"  Eight !"  said  Huldah,  out  of  the  fullness  of  her  sur- 
prise and  satisfaction. 

"  But  I  didn't  tell  him  I  should  choose  to  stay  at  home 
before  I  would  go  with  him." 

"  Would  you,  Sally  ?  Would  you  now,  dear  ?" 

"  Why  yes,  mother.     What  are  you  thinking  of  ?" 

"  Thinking  that  I  am  glad  you  say  so,  Sally.  I  wonder 
that  he  asked  you." 

But  Sally  did  not  tell  that  she  had  half  given  her  prom- 
ise, not  a  week  ago,  for  this  very  ride,  and  had  it  not  been 
for  the  hymn-hooks  she  would  certainly  have  gone.  But  the 
hymn-books  had  changed  her  mind  and  had  set  her  to  think- 
ing more  anxiously  about  Randy  Roy  than  Oliver  Savage. 

When  Oliver,  foolish  and  vain,  and  presuming  as  he  was, 
met  her  half  an  hour  ago  and  said  to  her  : 

"  I  was  on  the  look-out  for  you — did  you  see  me  coming  ?" 
she  answered  : 

"  Did  I  see  you  coming  ?  No !  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
you." 

He  looked  at  her  as  much  surprised  as  if  she  had  not 
been  the  Elder's  daughter  and  an  only  child.  Then  he  said, 
speaking  with  far  less  confidence  this  time  : 

"  I  wanted  to  say  something  about  the  Fourth,  you  know." 

"  About  the  Fourth  ?"  she  repeated.     "  What  Fourth  ?" 

"  There  are  going  to  be  great  doings  at  Brighton.  Ora- 
tion and  procession,  and  fireworks ;  but  it  will  be  the  best 
of  all  to  see  them  with  you,  Sally.  That's  going  to  be  my 
pleasure  in  it." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  go  with  father  and  mother,"  answered  she. 

"  AVhat's  that!"  he  asked,  or  rather  demanded,  as  if  he 
had  a  right. 

This  tone  was  new,  and  seemed  to  make  its  impression  on 
the  girl.  She  did  not  wish  to  offend  Oliver — she  thought 
just  now  that  she  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  vexed  at  herself. 

He  saw  that  she  was  confused,  and  added  boldly  : 


DIVERS  GIFTS.  165 

"  You  promised  me.  Don't  you  mind  your  promises  bet- 
ter than  that-?  Isn't  any  one  to  depend  on  you  if  you  give 
your  word  ?" 

"  Did  I  promise  ?     I  don't  remember  it." 

"  You  gave  me  to  believe  that  you  would  go  with  me. 
And  I  expected  it.  But  if  you  had  rather  go  with  your  fa- 
ther, of  course — " 

"  You'll  be  down  there,  won't  you  ?"  she  asked  impa- 
tiently. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  he  ;  "  likely  not.  What  would  I 
go  for  ?  There's  half-a-dozen  girls  would  be  glad  enough, 
but  I  am  not  going  to  invite  them." 

"What's  the  mere  getting  down  there  ?  The  pleasure  is 
in  walking  about,''  said  she.  "  Walking  about  with  the 
crowd  and  seeing  the  sights  !  That  is  the  Fourth  for  me." 

"  Who  are  you  going  to  walk  with  then — your  father 
too  ?" 

"  Father  will  be  looking  after  mother  and  grandma,  I  sup- 
pose. Two  women  will  be  enough  for  one  man  to  take  care 
of,  I  should  think.  If  you  should  happen  to  come  along 
when  the  crowd  was  pretty  thick  and  noisy,  I  think  father 
would  be  glad  enough  to  have  you  look  after  me." 

"  Oh,"  said  Oliver,  greatly  relieved,  and  looking  his 
gratitude  with  great  admiring  eyes  ;  "  I  understand.  You're 
on  my  side,  Sally,  if  he  isn't !  I'm  satisfied  !  Golly,  you 
beat  me !  you  beat  everybody  for  your  way  of  doing 
things." 

"  Who  said  I  was  on  your  side,  or  he  wasn't  ?  I  don't 
want  you  to  be  saying  around  the  country  I  don't  keep  my 
word,  or  I'm  proud.  That  is  what  I  mean,"  answered  Sal- 
ly, sharply.  But  he  cared  not  what  she  said.  He  should 
be  seen  on  the  Fourth  of  July  walking  about  Brighton,  hand 
in  hand,  with  Sally  Green  ! 


166  PETER    CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"WHAT  is  SMALL   AND  WHAT  is  GEEA T?" 

THE  ten  days  that  must  intervene  before  the  next  Satur- 
day were  passing,  one  by  one. 

Miss  Fuller's  week  at  Elder  Green's  had  ended,  and  she 
was  now  at  the  next  house  whose  doors  opened  for  her. 

Sally  was  not  sorry.  Such  industry  as  she  had  manifes- 
ted during  the  past  few  days  was  wearisome  to  her,  and  she 
had  occupied  herself  thus  diligently  only  that  she  might 
avoid  the  presence  so  distasteful  to  her.  She  expressed  no 
dissatisfaction  while  the  guest  remained,  nor  relief  when  she 
was  gone — it  was  rarely  that  the  whole  mind,  rarely  that  the 
true  mind  of  the  girl  betrayed  itself ;  and  she  was  afraid  of 
Miss  Fuller. 

But  Huldah,  the  mother,  was  full  of  hope,  and  even  sat- 
isfaction, thinking  of  the  improvement  she  fancied  she  could 
see  in  the  daughter  of  the  house  ;  mistaking  the  constraint 
under  which  she  was  living,  for  a  real  change  of  life  and 
purpose. 

In  her  leisure  moments,  day  by  day,  Randy  occupied  her- 
self with  the  copy-book. 

With  some  hesitation,  she  showed  the  book  to  Miss  Ful- 
ler when  she  came  to  thank  her  for  the  cherries  sent  to  her 
by  little  Harry  Johnson  ;  but  she  had  no  reason  to  regret 
the  criticism  thus  invited.  Neither  she  nor  any  rightly  stri- 
ving mortal  would  ever  hear  aught  but  encouragement  from 
Mercy  Fuller's  lips. 

The  gift  of  the  cherries  deserves  to  be  dwelt  upon  for  a 
moment  as  we  pass,  because  of  the  circumstances  attending 
its  offering. 


SMALL  AND  GREAT.  167 

One  morning  Randy  went  into  the  lane,  as  she  had  done 
on  other  mornings  during  the  past  week,  in  the  hope  that 
she  should  see  little  Harry  pass  by.  She  wanted  to  make 
her  peace  with  the  lad  ;  and  the  case  had  been  a  hard  one 
if  she  had  failed  to  do  it  backed  by  a  tree  full  of  luscious 
cherries. 

To  her  surprise,  when  she  came  to  the  tree  that  stood 
nearest  the  gate,  for  one  side  of  the  lane  was  bordered  by 
these  trees  of  early  fruit,  she  saw  Harry  standing  close  by 
the  rail-fence,  and  looking  up  with  longing  eyes  at  the 
branches,  which  grew  so  low  that,  standing  on  the  topmost 
rail,  he  might  easily  have  reached  them.  But  evidently  he 
had  committed  no  trespass  or  depredation  as  yet — his  hands 
were  full  of  clusters  of  "  pokeberries" — there  was  red  ink  in 
prospect,  and  he  seemed  already  to  have  made  some  rude 
experiments  in  pressing  the  juicy  fruit,  if  one  might  judge 
from  the  palms  of  his  hands,  incarnadined. 

When  he  saw  Miranda  approaching  him,  the  little  fellow's 
face  was  covered  with  confusion,  but  he  stood  stock  still, 
though  his  impulse  certainly  was  to  run  away  fast  as  his 
feet  could  carry  him.  She  saw  at  once  that  the  conference 
she  had  somewhat  dreaded  remained  in  her  conduct,  ac- 
cording to  her  will,  and  was  not  disposed  to  make  a  mistake 
in  using  opportunity. 

"  Oh,  Harry,  is  it  you  ?"  she  said,  coming  quite  close  to 
him,  and  speaking  with  that  frank,  kindly  voice,  which  had 
won  her  the  confidence  of  the  children  before  the  unfortu- 
nate day  with  which  we  began  her  history. 

He  hung  his  head  and  ground  his  shoes  through  the  dust 
of  the  farm  road,  that  ran  between  the  fields  bordered  by 
those  famous  trees. 

"  I  wanted  to  send  some  cherries  to  Miss  Fuller,"  said 
she.  "  I  am  so  glad  you  came.  I  was  going  to  look  for 
you,  for  you  can  carry  the  basket  to  the  school-house  for 
me.  Will  you,  Harry  ?" 

The  boy  looked  up,  unconscious  now  of  the  tears  with 
which  his  cheeks  were  wet,  so  kindly  Randy  spoke. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  he.     "  Groll  darn  it !" 

"  And  when  you  come  back  at  noon,  if  you  stop,"  said 
she,  "you  shall  find  another  basket  ready  for  you  to  carry 
home.  And  tell  your  mother,  if  she  wants  any  cherries  to 
dry,  she  can  have  them.  I've  dried  a  bushel,  and  they're 


168  PETER   CARRADINE. 

not  half  gone  yet.  Everybody's  trees  around  here  seemed 
to  fail  but  ours." 

She  was  now  standing  on  the  fence,  plucking  the  ripe 
fruit  by  the  handful,  and  Harry  was  gathering  up  the  treas- 
ure into  a  pile  for  Miss  Fuller's  basket. 

"  Eat  as  many  as  you  want,"  said  she.  "  How  do  you 
like  the  new  teacher,  Harry  1" 

"  First  rate,  I  does  !"  he  answered,  with  a  little  defiance 
it  seemed.  He  thought  Randy  would  have  something  to 
say  against  her  ;  and — but  would  he  actually  support  her 
if  thus  the  cherry  prospect  should  be  endangered  ? 

"  I  knew  you  would  like  her,"  said  Miranda.  All  right 
as  to  the  cherries  !  "  She  is  so  kind.  And  she  knows  so 
much  to  teach  you.  You  must  learn  all  you  can  while  Miss 
Fuller  stays  in  Martindell.  I  wish  she  could  stay  forever  !" 

Yes ! — she  actually  meant  it  !  The  child's  eyes  were  not 
to  be  deceived  as  he  fixed  them  in  undisguised  surprise  and 
questioning  on  Miranda.  She  was  actually  in  earnest. 

"  Be  you  converted,  Randy  ?"  he  asked,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her,  apparently  for  this  moment  forgetful  of  the 
fruit. 

"  Oh  !  what  makes  you  ask  that,  Harry  ?"  she  said,  blush- 
ing scarlet,  and  seeming  quite  distressed. 

"  I  heerd  say  so  to  hum.  Father  is.  And  I  saw  you  the 
day  when  we  went  to  camp-meeting.  Oliver  Savage,  he 
said  you  was  one  of  the  sisters  now." 

"  How  did  you  like  the  camp-meeting,  Harry  V 

"  Oh,  I  liked  it.  But  it  wasn't  fun,  like  the  Fourth  of  Ju- 
ly down  to  Brighton  last  year.  We're  going  down  to  see  it 
again.  Be  you,  Randy  ?" 

"  I  guess  not.'' 

"  Uncle  Carradine  says  we  ought  to  have  a  Fourth  up 
here  to  Martindell.  He  brought  me  such  lots  o*  torpedoes 
and  fire-crackers  !"  Saying  this,  he  threw  a  torpedo  slyly 
against  the  rail  fence,  and  was  mightily  pleased  when  he 
saw  how  startled  Randy  was  at  the  explosion.  Then  he 
said  : 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  it  now,  'a  well's  the  camp  meet- 
ing ?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  very  different.  The  meeting  was  so  pleasant — 
I  can't  tell  you  how  pleasant  it  was  to  me." 


SMALL  AND  GREAT.  169 

"  I  should  think  you  was  converted,"  said  he,  thoughtful- 
ly surveying  her. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Harry  ?" 

"  You  tell  me  first,  now — be  you  ?" 

"  If  it  means  to  be  converted  to  be  sorry,  very  sorry  that 
I  got  out  of  patience  with  you  that  day,  I  am  !"  said  she, 
looking  straight  at  the  little  fellow,  who  swung  himself 
around  on  one  foot,  with  a  private  "  Goll  darn  it,"  to  get 
rid  of  the  embarrassment  he  felt,  she  looked  at  him  so  earn- 
estly. "  And  it  would  make  me  happy  if  you  would  just 
say  that  you  forgive  me  for  it.  And  I  shall  love  you  al- 
ways. And  give  you  all  the  ripe  cherries  you  want,  as  long 
as  these  trees  stand."  That  was  a  climax  !  He  looked  up 
at  the  laden  branches— surveyed  the  first  fruits  of  forgive- 
ness with  a  bright  recognition. 

"  Kiss  me,"  she  said,  "  and  then  we  shall  be  friends  al- 
ways." 

God's  own  forgiveness,  she  believed,  was  in  the  kiss  she 
felt  upon  her  cheek.  Then  Harry  ran  off,  quite  convinced 
that  Handy  was  converted,  ready  to  fight  in  proof  of  it,  if 
that  were  necessary.  When  he  brought  back  the  basket,  at 
noon,  he  brought  also  a  bottle  of  red  ink,  viz  :  juice  of  the 
"  poke"  berries,  which  he  had  pressed  through  his  pocket 
handkerchief,  for  her.  Years  afterwards  that  bottle  stood 
upon  her  shelf,  a  relic,  prized  with  fond  religious  care. 

Already  Mr.  Roy  had  given  his  note  to  Senior  Jobson, 
and  the  Carradine  claim  was  wiped  off  from  the  old  man's 
farm.  It  was  brought  about  in  this  manner. 

The  day  after  her  father's  return  from  the  meeting,  Randy 
took  the  opportunity  to  mention  Senior  Jobson's  visit,  and 
his  talk  about  the  mortgage.  She  dwelt  upon  the  fact  that 
he  had  seen  how  disagreeable  it  must  be  for  the  old  man  to 
feel,  under  the  present  circumstances,  any  indebtedness  to 
that  man — made  much  also,  by  repetition,  of  the  fact  that 
Senior  had  heard  of  Carradine's  attempt  to  get  possession 
of  the  fine  lot  across  the  creek,  and  that  he  regarded  the 
offer  as  by  no  means  a  creditable  one  to  Peter. 

Then  she  showed  the  old  man  the  check  on  the  bank,  and 
told  him  that,  if  he  would  have  the  money  of  Jobson,  all  he 
need  to  do  was  write  his  name  on  the  back  of  the  slip  of  pa- 
per, and  take  it  to  the  bank  ;  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours 
Peter  Carradine's  claim  would  not  be  in  existence.  The 


170  PETER   CARRADINE. 

great  result  of  a  transaction  so  simple  seemed  deeply  to  im- 
press old  Samuel,  but  he  went  away  to  his  work  saying  lit- 
tle— secretly  disturbed  by  the  suspicion  that  this  might  be  a 
temptation  of  the  adversary. 

But  by-and-by  light  seemed  to  dawn  on  his  slow-reasoning 
mind,  the  business  appeared  in  a  new  aspect.  What  if  Se- 
nior's advances  were  the  first  signs  of  a  drawing  of  that  man 
towards  a  better  life,  and  to  the  work  of  faith  1  What  if,  in 
any  manner  or  degree,  he  should  be  responsible  for  the 
future  career  of  Senior  Jobson  ?  Would  it  do  for  him  to 
hold  himself  aloof  from  such  a  man  with  a  Pharisaic  pride? 

And  then  he  could  not  question  that  to  be  free  from  the 
old  debt  would  be  a  pleasure  to  Miranda.  He  wanted  to 
please  the  dear  girl.  She  had  not  urged  him,  he  reflected  ;  she 
only  told  him  what  Senior  said,  and  showed  him  the  check, 
and  remarked  that  it  was  kind  of  Mr.  Jobson,  and  a  true 
neighborly  act,  according  to  her  thinking.  And  Handy  had 
a  reason  for  this  which,  of  course,  remained  unguessed  by 
her  father.  Who  could  prophesy  the  changes  that  might 
take  place  before  Christmas  ?  By  that  time,  it  might  be,  her 
influence  would  have  made  of  Senior  Jobson  a  man  whom 
her  father  would  rejoice  to  call  his  son.  And  if  change 
did  really  take  place  nowhere  except  in  the  rebuilding  of 
the  Spread  Eagle,  time  enough  to  disturb  the  old  man's 
wonted  ways  of  thinking  when  there  should  be  need. 

Roy  had  begun  to  regard  Senior  and  his  check  with  some 
favor,  urged  by  the  reflection  noted  above,  when  the  inn- 
keeper made  his  appearence,  'with  intent  to  conclude  the 
business.  Jobson  was  a  shrewd  judge  of  character,  and  the 
necessity  of  coming  to  an  understanding  with  Samuel  Roy, 
lid  not  in  the  least  perplex  him.  He  was  certain  that  they 
should  finally  agree,  that  the  old  man  would  be  influenced 
by  one  motive  or  another,  so  far  as  to  accept  the  service 
tendered  him. 

He  was  certain,  because  he  never  disappointed  himself; 
whatever  he  had  the  will  to  do,  he  did  ;  and  was  by  no 
means  to  the  last  degree  scrupulous  in  employing  the 
forces  by  which  his  pleasure  was  to  be  accomplished. 
Though  a  talker,  he  seldom  took  himself  or  any  of  his  do- 
ings for  a  text — not  even  his  brother  entered  into  his  secret 
confidence.  He  belonged  to  the  class  of  people  who  are  a 
surprise  to  their  friends  ;  uppermost  is  a  bland,  easy  extcr- 


SMALL  AND  GREAT.  171 

ior — good  humor — no  aversion  to  fun  and  frolic  at  the  proper 
seasons — a  familiar  manner — quite  insinuating  in  his  talk 
with  younger  men — an  alluring  freedom  from  the  laws  of 
moralists  underneath,  an  alertness  that  can  never  be  sur- 
prised ;  a  penetration  that  cannot  be  deceived ;  a  force  of 
will  that  may  be  blind,  but  still  is  under  check,  and  some 
sort  of  guidance  ;  a  strong  man  under  the  dominion  of  the 
flesh,  who  could  yet  swear  by  his  conscience.  By  far  a 
richer  man  than  any  one  suspected,  for  he  had  been  pru- 
dent, in  spite  of  seeming  prodigality,  and  his  inn  was  a 
popular  place  of  resort  to  the  people  round  about. 

It  was  really  a  matter  of  the  little  consequence  he  repre- 
sented, that  he  should  offer  to  loan  Samuel  Roy  three  hun- 
dred dollars — and  this  was  the  best  way  he  could  devise  to 
resent  the  Carradine  affront.  He  knew  Carradine  well 
enough  to  understand  that  nothing  would  touch  him  more 
nearly  than  poor  old  Samuel's  mild  refusal  to  come  to  his 
terms  of  reconciliation. 

He  said  to  himself,  as  he  crossed  the  lot  to  treat  with  the 
old  man,  that  he  should  wind  him  round  his  finger  in  less 
than  ten  minutes,  and  so  the  event  proved.  The  feat  was 
done  so  cleverly,  so  "  neatly,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  re- 
traced his  steps,  without  taking  with  him  anything  to  show 
the  liability  of  Hoy,  that  he  was  disposed  to  think  it  one  of 
the  best  operations  he  had  ever  carried  out  to  a  successful 
conclusion. 

But  when  he  went  back  to  the  tavern,  he  asked  himself 
why  he  shouldn't  himself  perfect  the  transaction — get  the 
money  from  the  bank  for  Samuel,  and  let  the  old  man  settle 
with  Carradine  before  night  ?  It  was  Jobson's  way.  De- 
liberate in  planning,  but  working  like  a  whirlwind  when  the 
arrangements  were  complete.  So  he  saddled  his  horse  and 
rode  down  to  Brighton,  procured  the  money,  and  was  back 
again  before  noon.  Hoy  was  hardly  surprised  at  this, 
though  the  kindness  of  the  act  quite  overwhelmed  him. 
Tearful  and  confused,  and  apparently  oppressive  to  the  re- 
cipient, his  thanks  rolled  out. 

He  came  into  the  house  with  Jobson,  and  told  Randy 
what  had  been  done. 

"  Then  you'll  sign  the  note,  father,"  said  Randy.  She 
had  already  written  his  name  at  the  foot  of  the  note,  and 
now  brought  it  to  him,  with  a  book  and  a  pen  wet  in  ink — 


172  PETER  CARRADINE. 

he  was  to  make  his  mark.  He  did  not  seem  to  quite  under- 
stand her,  but  he  had  a  way  of  yielding  to  his  daughter  in 
most  matters,  for  he  was  old  and  feeble,  and  relied  more 
than  he  knew  upon  her  youth  and  strength.  So  he  took 
the  pen,  and  held  it  between  his  teeth  while  he  put  on  hia 
glasses. 

"  I'll  read  it  for  you,  father,"  said  she  ;  and  she  took  it 
up  to  read. 

"  Pooh,"  said  Jobson,  "none  of  that;"  and  he  seemed 
about  to  take  the  note  from  her — but  she  stepped  backward 
beyond  him,  and  said,  in  a  resolute  voice,  that  made  Senior 
think  of  the  Spread  Eagle  exultant  : 

"  We  can't  borrow  money  of  any  man,  sir,  without  giving 
something  to  show  for't.  Who  knows  what'll  happen  ?" 

"  Who  cares  ?"  asked  he. 

"  I  promise  to  pay  three  hundred  dollars,  at  my  conveni- 
ence, to  Senior  Jobson,  for  value  received,"  read  Randy. 
"  And  here  I  have  signed  your  name,  father,  and  now  you 
can  make  your  mark.  Ri^ht  here,"  pointing  to  the  place. 

"  Certain,"  said  Samuel,  then  he  looked  up  at  Jobson, 
"  it's  all  right.  Who  knows  what  a  day'll  bring  forth  ?" 

"  Very  well — sign  away,"  said  Senior.  "  There's  no 
telling  what  six  months  will  do  for  a  man,  Samuel.  So 
make  your  mark." 

It  was  a  trembling  cross  that  stood  for  the  old  farmer  be- 
tween his  Christian  name  and  the  name  he  had  inherited 
When  he  had  made  it  he  looked  up  at  Handy,  but  she  had 
turned  away,  and  was  standing  by  the  window.  Jobson 
only  stood  by  him,  and  Jobson  took  the  note,  and  said  : 

"  There's  no  knowing  what'll  happen  to  a  man  in  a  day  or 
a  year,  as  you  say,  Samuel.  I  may  die,  you  know — I  reckon 
I  won't  leave  you  to  be  badgered  by  my  heirs — when  you 
get  the  money,  pay  it,  if  you  like  ;  and  if  you  can't — "  he 
tore  the  note  into  a  thousand  fragments — "  it's  between  us 
three.  If  you  was  my  old  father  sitting  there  I'd  give  it  to 
you.  And  you  are  a  father  in  Israel,  you  know.  So  now 
don't  worry.  I  never  had  a  chance  of  helping  my  old  man 
— you  just  consider  that,  far  as  this  little  transaction  goes, 
you're  standing  in  his  place." 

As  he  spoke,  Jobson  had  been  approaching  the  door,  and 
now  he  stepped  through  it  into  the  sunlight,  pulled  his  hat 


SMALL  AND  GREAT.  173 

over  his  eyes,  plunged  bis  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  went 
back  to  the  tavern. 

"  Now,  father,"  said  Randy,  making  haste  to  supply  her 
father  with  a  new  set  of  thoughts,  "  slick  yourself  up,  and 
go  pay  Peter  Carradine  his  money  before  he's  an  hour 
older." 

The  old  man  looked  at  the  package  of  bills,  which  had 
been  counted  at  the  bank,  and  was  labelled  on  the  outside 
of  the  envelope,  in  great  letters,  plain  for  him  to  read, 
"  Three  hundred."  But  he  did  not  stir. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  with  more  spirit;  "I'll  get  out  your 
coat,  and  brush  it ;  go  into  the  shed  and  wash,  and  it  can 
all  be  done  up  before  night.  Then  we'll  sleep  easy,  I'm 
sure  ;  there's  a  man  for  owing  a  debt  to,  that  don't  wan't  a 
cent  of  interest,  and  tears  up  the  note  !  And  very  likely, 
money  being  scarce,  Mr.  Carradine'll  be  right  glad  to  get  it 
to-day — if  he  isn't,  where's  the  difference  ?  We're  glad  to 
pay.  Senior  Jobson  is  a  better  man  than  we  took  him  for. 
We  ought  to  be  glad  to  find  that  out  1  He  spoke  as  tender 
as  I'd  speak  of  you,  of  the  old  father  he'd  never  been  able  to 
help." 

"  He  did  speak  right  tender,"  said  the  old  man.  "  He's  a 
kind  heart,  Jobson  has.  I  never  thought  I'd  be  beholden 
to  him,  though  ;  and  I  wouldn't  train  in  his  company  for 
sights  o'  money  ;  but  I'm  hopeful  he  is  to  be  brought  over. 
Look  a'  that  now !  and  he's  never  bragging  what  he  does 
like,  it's  not  the  first  time  he's  remembered  the  old  man. 
Any  way  it's  cheating  of  the  devil  so  much,  Randy  ?"  The 
old  man  asked  the  question,  longing  that  she  should  answer 
according  to  his  desire — and  she  did,  and  her  assurance 
went  for  more  than  even  hers  would  have  gone  for,  in  decid- 
ing such  a  question,  before  the  camp-meeting. 

It  was  yet  quite  early  in  the  afternoon  when  he  set  out 
for  Mr.  Carradine's,  with  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and  the 
injunction  on  his  mind  that  he  was  not  to  satisfy  any  curi- 
osity as  to  where  the  money  came  from,  or  how  it  had  been 
raised  ;  for,  of  course,  Mr.  Carradine  would  be  curious — no 
one  thought  that,  at  this  time  of  year,  Mr.  Roy  would  be  in 
possession  of  a  sum  like  that. 

But  Mr.  Carradine  asked  no  questions — showed  no  curi- 
osity ;  checked  even  his  expressions  of  regret  that  the  old 


174  PETER     CARRADINE. 

man  should  be  unwilling  to  part  with  the  lot  he  had  tried  to 
bargain  for.  The  mere  fact  that  Samuel  had  taken  this 
step,  showed  him  that  he  had  deeply  wounded  the  high 
spirit  of  the  humble  house — that,  under  a  galJed  sense  of 
the  wound,  they  must  have  bestirred  themselves  to  be  free 
of  him.  He  checked  even  the  expression  of  real  regret  he 
felt ;  and  he  saw  that  Hoy  was  there  to  pay  the  mortgage 
not  ~s  one  who  had  been  persuaded  against  his  will. 

This  new  feeling  of  independence  was  not  founded  on  a 
fact  that  would  equalize  the  future  relations  between  the  two 
families.  Carradine,  kindly  and  generous  at  heart,  liked 
not  to  think  that  it  was  the  feeling  that  his  neighbors  did 
not  love  or  trust  him  that  strengtheued  :he  barriers  between 
him  and  them — he  would  fain  have  had  those  barriers  re- 
moved ;  but  no  expectation  of  such  an  event  for  a  moment 
deceived  him. 

When  he  saw  how  peacefully  Miss  Fuller  passed  through 
the  performance  of  her  school  duties  ;  on  what  easy  terms 
of  good  understanding  with  herself,  and  those  around  her, 
she  lived,  her  life  seemed  to  him  lovely  as  an  early  summer 
day  ;  and  his,  in  the  contrast,  like  a  surly  November.  Con- 
tinually the  influences  of  that  serenity  and  cheerfulness 
were  telling  upon  him,  and  disquieting  him.  lie  could  not 
rest  quietly  in  the  thought  that  she  was  here.  She  would 
soon  be  going.  In  a  few  months  at  the  longest.  Was  he 
to  fall  back  on  Martindale,  with  its  glimpses  and  touches  of 
Brighton?  Satisfy  himself  with  the  Johnsons,  and  the 
Greens — Samuel  Hoy  and  Handy,  and  the  rest  of  the  neigh- 
borhood ? 

He  found  strange  consolation  in  the  fact,  often  as  he 
thought  of  these  things,  and  very  often  he  was  thinking  of 
them,  that  Mercy  was  poor,  defenceless — working  for  a  liv- 
ing. His  riches  seemed  to  gain  a  new  importance,  and  to 
have  a  new  significance,  considered  in  connexion  with  her 
poverty.  But  it  was  not  often  that  they  were  speaking  to- 
gether, and  very  rarely  he  mentioned  her  name,  unless  it 
was  to  little  Harry,  in  whose  studies  and  progress  he 
seemed  to  take  a  new  and  extraordinary  interest.  Often  he 
was  looking  over  the  boy's  school-books,  particularly  the 
Reader,  which  he  bought  for  him  in  Brighton  ;  so  he  said 
and  he  wrote  Harry's  name  in  it ;  but  it  would  be  long  be- 


SMALL  AND  GREAT.  175 

fore  the  child  could  make  use  of  anything  so  advanced. 
Carradine's  memory  was  remarkable.  Was  he  secretly 
studying  the  reading-book  for  his  own  edification,  when 
he  read  some  story  or  poem  from  the  "  big  boy's  Reader  ?" 
Oftener  than  any  one  suspected,  he  was  thinking  over 
those  best  thoughts  of  the  wise  poets  and  law-givers, 
and  his  life  was  being  nourished  by  them. 


176  PETER  CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TUB     LETTEK. 

MAIL-DAY,  and  a  day  of  days  to  Randy.  Longed  for,  yet 
arrived  at  with  feelings  so  disturbed  that  it  had  been  diffi- 
cult to  say  whether  there  was  most  pain  or  pleasure  in  them. 
When  the  clock  struck  one,  she  was  awakened  ;  she  must 
rise  in  time  to  watch  the  arrival  of  the  sfage  that  brought 
the  mail  to  Martindale,  by  seven  in  the  morning ! 

She  must  go  down  for  that  letter.  Senior  must  know 
about  it.  And  would  Senior  care  ?  She  thought  not.  It 
pleased  her  now  to  think  how  Senior  trusted  to  her. 

At  last  it  was  daybreak — at  last  breakfast  was  over  ;  at 
last  she  heard  the  post-boy  whistling  on  his  way,  for  at  the 
hour  when  he  usually  rode  past  she  went  out  to  listen. 

Never  did  day  take  its  time  with  so  provoking  composure 
as  this  Saturday.  She  had  concluded  to  wait  till  twilight 
before  she  went  down  to  the  tavern,  but  long  before  that 
hour  the  week's  work  was  ended,  and  she  had  dressed  her- 
self, and  as  a  last  resort,  betaken  herself  to  her  knitting. 
But  knitting  !  what  if  a  dozen  men  sat  round  the  tavern 
steps,  as  they  always  did,  on  mail-days  !  Was  that  to  hin- 
der her  taking  a  saucer  of  ripe  strawberries  4own  to  Jun- 
ior's poor  wife  ?  How  many  days  was  it  since  she  walked 
through  the  lane  gate  ? 

So  she  put  on  her  sun-bonnet  and  started  with  the  saucer 
of  ripe  berries,  the  choice  ones  of  her  morning's  gathering 
in  the  field. 

To  her  surprise,  however,  as  she  came  near  the  tavern, 
there  was  not  the  usual  gathering  of  gossips  in  waiting 
while  Senior  dispensed  the  items  from  his  newspapers.  A 
strong  wind  blew  from  the  east,  and  the  audience  had  fol- 
lowed the  reader  into  the  bar-room,  so  that  Randy  came  up 


THE    LETTER.  177 

to  the  door  of  the  blacksmith's  house  quite  unnoticed — ex- 
cept by  Sally  Green,  who  stood  at  the  back  yard  gate,  with 
her  bonnet  on,  waiting  for  anything,  it  seemed,  for  when 
Handy  crossed  the  road  and  entered  the  blacksmith's  house, 
she  followed  her  in  time  to  hear  Ethan  Allen  say,  "  No  ; 
she's  gone  out,  and  so  I'm  tending.  There's  a  letter  for 
you,  and  a  bundle  of  stuff;  and  it's  paid  for,  too.  See 
there." 

Whether  the  boy's  astonishment  was  excited  by  the 
"  stuff"  itself,  or  by  Ilandy's  surprise,  as  she  received  her 
mail,  or  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Sally  Green,  who 
came  in  and  stood  before  Randy  so  quietly  as  to  bring  a 
deeper  flush  over  the  girl's  face,  and  a  good  deal  more  of 
confusion  into  her  manner,  is  not  here  to  be  decided. 

The  girls  walked  out  of  the  blacksmith's  house  together, 
not  quite  at  ease  in.  each  other's  company  ;  but  Randy  had 
said  to  herself  that,  if  Sally  Green  was  curious,  she  "would 
answer  her  questions.  And  Sally  was  curious.  She  asked 
who  sent  the  stuff,  and  Miranda  answered  : 

"  Mr.  Collamer,  I  expect." 

"  Mr.  Collamer  !  writing  a  letter  to  you  !  What  does 
that  mean?"  exclaimed  Sally,  with  a  surprise  that  did  not 
originate  in  pleasure,  and  certainly  the  manner  of  its  ex- 
pression communicated  none. 

"  He  spoke  about  it,  and  said  he  had  some  papers  I  might 
like  to  read — for  he  knew  we  didn't  get  the  reading  of 
many."  And  I  cannot  say  that  Miranda,  in  making  this 
answer,  was  wholly  regardless  of  the  fact  that  Elder  Green 
was  by  no  means  generous  in  the  matter  of  loaning  news- 
papers. 

"  It's  queer  you  kept  it  to  yourself  so.  You  didn't  tell 
me  you  looked  for  a  letter." 

"  How  could  I  know  that  I  should  get  one  till  it  came  ?" 
was  the  answer.  Randy  tried  hard  to  master  her  impa- 
tience, and  Sally  was  pleased  to  say  : 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  post-mark.  Frankfort,"  she  read, 
taking  the  package  from  Miranda.  "  That's  the  mark  that 
was  on  father's  letter."  Then  Sally  began  to  tear  the  coarse 
brown  wrapping  on  which  the  address  was  written  so  legibly 
and  carefully,  it  was  evident  that  the  sender  intended  his 
gift  should  not  go  astray.  Randy's  impulse  was  to  put  out 
her  hand  to  arrest  Sally's  work,  but  she  sought  to  disguise 


178  PETER   CARRADINE. 

that  impulse  by  tying  her  bonnet  strings,  and  Sally  tore  the 
wrapper  open,  through  the  middle  of  the  address. 

"  There's  a  deal  of  reading,"  said  Miranda,  looking  well 
pleased,  as  she  saw  the  bulky  magazines  in  their  brown 
covers.  "  It  will  be  good  for  father." 

"  Yes,  for  those  that  like — reading  isn't  my  way.  I'm 
glad  he  didn't  send  "ein  to  me.  Though  he  knew,  of  course, 
I  could  buy  all  the  books  I  wanted." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  him,"  said  Randy,  thinking  of  the 
hymn  book  with  Sally's  name  written  on  the  fly-leaf. 

"  He  ought  to  have  a  rich  wife,  though,"  observed  Sally. 
"  A  rich  wife  to  keep  him  going.  He  isn't  the  man  to 
marry  any  poor  woman.  He  won't  either.  I  don't  think 
much  of  these  ministers  after  all." 

"  Oh,  Sally !  You  didn't  think  that  up  to  the  camp-meet- 
ing, a  little  time  ago." 

"  I'vT5  changed  my  mind  about  it  all.  I  don't  believe  one 
bit  in  revivals,  either.  It's  all  excitement,  and  leaves  you 
worse  off  than  you  were  before." 

"  No,  you're  saying  of  that  to  get  me  to  talking,"  said 
Randy,  looking  with  a  serious,  searching  gaze  at  Sally's 
face.  "  I'll  never  believe  it  wasn't  true  what  you  said  up 
there.  How  he  had  helped  you  on  to  lead  a  godly  life — to 
make  you  wish  for  one,  and  choose  one.  And  you  promised 
him  your  prayers  when  he  asked  us  :  How  could  you  do 
that,  and  think  so  at  one  time  ?" 

"  Pooh,  what  a  fuss  you  make  !  You  ivill\)Q  one  of  grand- 
ma's kind — look  out !"  said  Sally,  laughing  as  she  gave  the 
caution — but  she  did  not  look  at  Randy.  "  It  was  all  excite- 
ment. We  used  to  have  such  at  school.  It  was  as  good  as 
a  circus,  or  a  theatre,  or  anything,  that  camp-meeting.  I'm 
glad  I  went.  I'm  glad  it  all  happened — now  I  know  all 
about  it — and  I  don't  think  there's  anything  in  it.  There  ! 
but  if  you  say  that  to  father  he  won't  believe  you.  Of 
course  you  wouldn't  be  believed." 

"  You  don't  mean  what  you're  saying  !"  exclaimed  Randy, 
the  more  positive,  because  now  and  then  during  the  past 
days  the  shadow  of  some  such  thought  as  Sally  had  here 
boldly  uttered  had  crossed  her  own  mind,  and  terrified  her. 
"  You  can't  mean  it  !  Oh,  it's  awful  to  see  you  looking  so, 
as  if  it  didn't  matter  whether  you  spoke  in  earnest  or  in 


THE    LETTER.  179 

fun  !     You  did  feel  up  there  that  he  had  helped  you  see  the 
truth." 

"  No,  I  didn't.  I  was  like  the  man  in  the  whirlpool  at 
Niagara  Falls.  I  was  in,  and  I  couldn't  get  out.  As  for 
you,  you're  dead  in  love — that's  the  matter  of  you,  Randy." 

Bandy's  face  turned  scarlet — then  it  was  deathly  pale.  It 
was  with  difficulty  she  could  speak  what  she  had  thought  she 
would  Bay  before  Sally  uttered  these  last  words.  The  words 
came  from  her  now  with  trembling  and  pain. 

"  I  feel  it  in  myself,"  said  she.  "  I  know  I  have  gone 
back.  I  can't  keep  my  mind  bent  as  I  did  on  those  blessed 
subjects  all  the  while,  and  my  thoughts  wander,  and  my 
heart  is  cold,  but  I  know  I  turned  to  Grod,  and  I  know  that 
Jesus  Christ  is  my  Saviour.  And  I  depend  upon  Him — I 
depend  upon  Him  to  act  up  to  His  promise.  I  will  believe 
in  it !  He  sees  how  I'm  tried,  and  He's  willing  I  should  be 
tried,  or  I  couldn't  be.  I  expect  it  is  always  so.  We  must 
only  believe  the  more,  the  darker  things  look.  That's  what 
they  all  say,  Sally.  And  we're  Peters  walking  on  the  water 
for  a  testimony.  And  there's  Zaccheus  sitting  up  in  a  tree 
for  curiosity,  he  is  a  witness  that  the  eyes  of  the  Lord  are 
in  every  place,  beholding  the  evil  and  the  good.  We  can- 
not help  ourselves.  But  He  can  help  us." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Sally,  after  a  weighty  pause,  during 
which,  according  to  her  power,  she  had  considered  Randy's 
words ;  "  I  just  wish  I  had  never  gone  up  there  !" 

"  You  do  ? — After  all  that  was  done  for  Oliver,  too  !  And 
we  felt  it  in  our  own  hearts,  and  saw  it  with  our  own 
eyes  ?" 

"  I  wish,"  repeated  Sally,  "  that  I  had  never  gone.  What 
was  that  you  said  about  Oliver  Savage  ?" 

"  Wasn't  that  meeting  the  saving  of  him  ?  He  went  up 
for  a  frolic,  and  was  gambling  when  the  word  shot  into  his 
heart." 

"  Nonsense !"  said  Sally.  "  There's  more  been  said 
against  him  than  them  that  talked  will  be  able  to  answer 
for"" 

"  You  know  he  told  us  himself  that  was  what  he  went  for 
— and  he  owned  it  when  he  spoke  in  the  meeting." 

"  He  might  better  have  kept  it  to  himself,  then.  He  isn't 
half  as  bad  as  he  tried  to  make  out — not  half.  And  there 


180  PETER   CARRADINE. 

wasn't  a  young  man  on  the  ground  to  compare  with .  him  for 
pretty  looks.  What  makes  you  turn  against  him  so  ?" 

"  I  ? — Why  that  is  strange  for  you  to  say.  Ask  him  if  lie 
don't  reckon  me  among  his  friends.  When  he  got  into  the 
trouble  about  that  bad  money,  ask  him  who  kept  him  from 
starving  three  weeks,  till  the  talk  stopped,  and  who  drove 
him  down  to  Brighton  after  dark,  and  saw  the  last  of  him 
that  anybody  saw  around  here  for  five  years." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,  Miranda,"  said  Sally,  in  a  softened 
voice. 

"  He  ought  never  to  have  come  back,  that's  all  I'm  sorry 
for.  But  maybe  that  is  wrong.  For  if  he  was  led,  and 
came  back  to  be  converted,  he  may  make  a  good  man  yet  for 
his  poor  old  mother  to  depend  on." 

"  There's  Mr.  Carradine  !"  said  Sally.  "  Wasn't  he  as 
wild,  I'd  like  to  know,  as  any  fellow  ever  was  ?  And  where 
is  there  a  soberer  man  ? — all  his  wild  oats  sowed,  as  any- 
body can  see.  And  he  gets  richer  and  richer  every  year. 
He  could  buy  out  all  his  neighbors.  And  he's  got  some 
mortgages  that  might  make  trouble  in  some  houses  where 
they  hold  their  heads  high,  if  he  chose  to  put  them  through. 
So,  what  if  Oliver  has  been  wild,  that  don't  show  anything." 

"  But  he  isn't  like  Mr.  Carradine.  There's  more  danger 
of  his  going  back.  He  ought  to  be  encouraged — but  I  don't 
think  he  ought  to  be  praised.  When  Mr.  Carradine  turned 
about  from  his  practices  he  couldn't  have  been  got  back 
into  them,  I  should  think.  He  hated  himself  so  for  what 
he  had  done,  it  wasn't  likely  he  would  be  doing  of  it  over." 

"  Yes — well,  when  Oliver  gets  to  be  a  rich  man,  then  it 
will  be  time  to  praise  him,  I  suppose.  It's  the  money  peo- 
ple set  the  value  on,  after  all." 

"  No  it  isn't,  Sally,  it's  the  character." 

"  A  beautiful  character  Peter  Carradine  has  I"  exclaimed 
Sally,  with  a  scornful  laugh.  "  Lovely,  to  be  sure." 

"  There's  something  strong  and  noble  in  it.  And  that's 
what  Miss  Fuller  was  saying  to  me.  She  said  that  he 
seemed  to  her  like  a  great  mountain,  so  sure,  and  so  strong." 

Sally  laughed  again,  not  quite  so  scornfully. 

"  Whal  did  I  tell  you,"  said  she,  "  when  you  called  him  a 
hedgehog  ?" 

"  I  told  you  once  I  didn't  call  him  a  hedgehog.  I  said  I 
should  as  soon  think  she  would  love  a  hedgehog."  But  as 


THE    LETTER.  181 

Miranda  said  this,  she  was  aware  that  there  was,  just  at  this 
moment,  less  confidence  in  her  mind  on  that  score.  "  She'll 
marry  him  yet.  And  when  you  see  such  a  woman  marrying 
such  a  man,  you'll  wonder.  People  always  have  to  wonder 
at  such  things.  I  guess  /will  give  them  a  chance." 

Miranda  checked  the  eager  words  on  her  tongue's  end, 
and  Sally  said  : 

"  What  should  you  think  to  see  me  married,  now  ?" 

"  That  would  depend  some  on  the  man." 

"  Well,  we  were  talking  about  Oliver  Savage.  What  if 
I  took  him  ?  You  say  he  is  a  kind-hearted  fellow,  and  ex- 
cellent looking,  so  what  do  you  say  to  my  taking  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  that  you  will,"  said  Randy,  uneasily  re- 
minded at  this  moment  of  what  it  was  that  had  secretly 
troubled  her,  that  undefined  consciousness.,  through  all  this 
walk  and  talk  with  Sally  Green. 

"  If  I  had  to  choose  between  him  and  Collamer,  what 
would  you  say  ?" 

'  I  don't  believe  you  would  wait  to  ask  me  my  opinion." 

'  I'd  make  up  my  mind  so  quick  ?" 
1  Yes." 

'  I'd  take  the  minister  ?" 
'  Wouldn't  you,  Sally  Green  1" 

'  Randy,  you  are  as  cautious  as  a  fox.  If  I  make  up  my 
mind  to  Mr.  Collamer,  I  shall  marry  him.  I  could  do  it  in 
six  months.  Women  manage  these  things  to  suit  them- 
selves. I  don't  know  why  I  should  be  in  a  hurry  to  quit 
the  old  house  and  set  up  for  myself.  No  end  to  troubles 
then.  Oh,  I  was  going  back  without  telling  you  what  I  left 
the  house  to  tell  you.  Did  you  know  Miss  Fuller  is  going 
to  have  a  kind  of  exhibition  the  third  of  July — and  all  the 
people  around  are  to  be  invited  to  come  to  the  school-house. 
Will  you  go  ?" 

"  Yea,  if  she  asks  me." 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't  !  You  don't  seem  to  have  laid 
up  a  thing  against  her.  I've  kept  you  a  good  while  from 
your  reading.  Are  you  going  to  read  those  books  through  ?" 

"  Oh,  maybe.  But  you  shall  have  them  too.  Well, 
good-night,  Sally." 

"  Good-night.  1  thought  you  was  more  in  a  hurry  than 
you'd  own.  You'll  lend  the  letter  too,  I  expect !" 


182  PETER   CARRADINE. 

Miranda  had  not  gone  ten  paces  further  up  the  road  when 
she  met  Oliver  Savage.  They  passed  each  other  with  a 
kindly  word,  and  in  less  than  five  minutes  Sally,  who  had 
turned  to  retrace  her  steps  in  a  sombre  mood,  looked  around 
to  see  who  was  coming,  and  saw  the  man  who  occupied,  not 
very  pleasantly,  her  thoughts. 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  THE  LOVERS.  183 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE   FRIENDS   ANDTHE   LOVEES. 

SAMUEL  ROY  has  finally  gone  off  to  bed,  after  having 
turned  page  by  page  the  magazines  he  was  surprised  and 
pleased  to  know  Mr.  Collamer  had  sent  to  Randy.  He  had 
prayed  for  the  young  minister  in  the  evening  prayer,  and 
his  daughter  said  Amen  to  every  word.  And  now,  at  peace 
with  all  the  world,  the  old  man  lies  down  to  rest  and  to  won- 
der. Randy  has  fastened  the  house  door — it  is  a  simple 
process  ;  a  thief  has  never  crossed  that  threshold,  and  noth- 
ing could  exceed  the  sense  of  security  with  which  they  lay 
them  down  to  sleep.  She  is  in  her  room — and  there  is  noth- 
ing now  to  hinder  the  reading  of  that  letter.  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  she  may  fairly  look  at  it. 

She  took  it  from  her  pocket,  that  bit  of  white  paper,  writ- 
ten over,  sealed  and  stamped — such  a  seeming  trifle — such 
a  mighty  matter.  If  Sally  had  only  left  unsaid  those  rude 
words  about  Mr.  Collamer  ! 

She  observes  how  securely  the  seal  secures  the  contents 
of  the  letter,  whatever  they  may  be.  From  his  eye  it  has 
passed  to  hers  ;  no  intervening  gaze.  None  have  come  be- 
tween them.  No  wonder  that  she  hardly  breathed,  and  that 
her  hands  trembled.  For  "no  human  soul  can  approach  an- 
other human  soul  and  it  is  a  light  thing."  Not  idly  or  wan- 
tonly mayst  thou  cross  the  sacred  limits — to  every  desecra- 
tion there  is  penalty  attached.  What  he  has  written,  what 
thou  shalt  read,  Miranda,  it  is  all  done  under  the  scrutiny  of 
God  ;  God,  and  God  alone,  is  in  your  secret.  Does  that 
knowledge  give  it  additional  sacredness  and  power  1  If  so, 
well. 

Thus  she  unfolded  the  letter,  and  read. 

And  what  did  she  read  ?     To  what  purpose   should   one 


184  PETER    CARRADINE. 

copy  bore  a  dozen  sentences  or  more,  decorated  somewhat 
with  the  heart's  broidery,  simple  flowers,  and  chaste,  every 
one.  The  words  that  electrify  one  soul  fall  coldly  on  an- 
other. It  is  the  mind  and  heart  that  discover  their  mean- 
ing. Vain  to  repeat  the  vowels  and  consonants.  People 
will  idly  chatter  the  secrets  which  should  have  died  with 
the  dead.  And  the  greedy  ear  and  the  gabbling  tongue, 
fiink  you  they  shall  ever  reach  the  sacred  mysteries  which 
these  words  pretend  to  discover  ?  The  secrets  of  love  can 
never  be  revealed.  The  loving  alone  know  them.  No  re- 
hearsal can  give  them  to  the  unloving  soul. 

Yet,  when  I  write  that  sacred  word,  I  know  that  I  shall 
draw  an  audience  of  consecrated  souls  around  me.  I  know 
that  hands  cannot  fashion  the  mystic  characters  of  that  di- 
vinest  name,  but  there  will  be  a  hushed  and  reverent  at- 
tention, an  eager,  craving  audience,  a  heeding  as  prompt  as 
the  bowed  heads  of  worshippers  at  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 

There  will  be  tender  smiles  of  sympathizing  intelligence, 
and,  at  the  worst,  sad  heeding,  when  I  say  that  Miranda 
opened  the  letter  with  tremulous  eagerness,  and  looked  at 
the  fine  and  regular  tracery  of  the  pen  on  the  white  paper. 
Over  that  page  he  had  lingered,  thinking  of  her — thinking 
thoughts  he  should  transcribe  !  what  he  should  say  to  her  of 
herself — what  he  should  tell  her  of  him.  Must  Senior  Job- 
son  be  taken  into  the  confidence  ?  Easy,  generous  Senior  ? 
What  was  it  Sally  said  about  her  being  dead  in  love  ?  It 
was  a  hateful  thought,  that  hurt  her.  It  made  her  blush 
even  in  the  presence  of  these  words  Mr.  Collamer  had  writ- 
ten. 

There  was  nothing  trivial,  cold,  indifferent  in  those  three 
pages.  They  were  warm  with  friendly  inquiries,  and  hopes, 
and  suggestions  ;  thoughts  hopeful,  courageous,  religious. 
His  place,  he  said,  was  already  appointed  for  him.  He  was 
going  to  a  large  town  and  should  have  a  large  congregation. 
He  deemed  that  this  was  well  for  him.  He  was  afraid  that, 
if  he  had  the  opportunity,  he  should  be  less  zealous  in  labor 
than  his  calling  demanded.  But  here  he  should  find  duties 
that  could  not  be  neglected — it  was  a  missionary  station  he 
would  occupy — the  people  were  poor  ;  his  heart  and  hands 
would  be  full,  and  he  should  indeed  faint  in  the  prospect 
but  for  the  hopes  that  were  set  before  him,  and  the  sacred 
promise  that  they  should  all  be  fulfilled.  He  asked  her  to 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  THE  LOVERS.  185 

remember  him  in  her  prayers.  That  she  would  never  let  a 
day  go  by  that  she  did  not  ask  for  his  enlightenment  and 
strengthening.  He  should  not  forget  her.  It  was  his  great 
privilege  to  remember  her  when  he  came  into  the  holiest 
audience.  There  was  no  good  thing  that  could  bless  a  wo- 
man's life  that  he  did  not  desire  in  her  behalf.  But,  above 
all,  that  she  might  be  guided  from  above.  And  at  the  end 
he  wrote  himself  her  faithful  friend.  And  begged  that  she 
would  not  keep  him  waiting  long  for  tidings  of  herself. 

She  had  said  to  him  that  she  could  not  write  a  letter  that 
he  would  not  be  ashamed  to  receive.  He  told  her  that  she 
could  not  write  one  he  would  not  be  proud  to  read,  for  he 
knew  her  heart  and  her  head — what  both  were  capable  of 
thinking  and  of  feeling — and  a  little  freedom  in  the  use  of 
her  pen  was  all  that  she  required.  A  few  lines  from  her, 
he  begged  her  to  believe,  would  stand  for  more  with  him 
than  the  best  composition  of  any  other  woman  he  knew. 
Was  she  indifferent  to  that  assurance  ? 

And  the  best  thing  she  could  tell  him  was  that  she  was  in 
health,  as  her  soul  prospered.  That  the  Divine  and  human 
life  were  well,  together.  No  other  news  from  her  could  be 
so  welcome  to  him. 

Let  every  prize  be  proven.  Doubtless  'tis  good  to  dis- 
cover veins  of  precious  metal  in  the  heart  of  a  rock — it  wi- 
dens your  way  through  life  ;  will  it  plant  your  feet  in  Hea- 
ven ?  Or,  oh  !  ye  heart-sweeping  poets,  is  the  gain  of  gains 
hid  in  this  world's  praise  1  or,  in  the  ribbon  you  gained  for 
the  blood  you  gave,  brave  soldiers,  whose  proud  business 
was  to  give  life  for  the  Italy  which  should  be  made  free 
from  Alps  to  Adriatic  ?  Or,  simple  woman,  poring  over  a 
letter,  have  you  a  better  evidence  ? 

She  brings  out  her  copy-book,  and  opens  its  last  written 
page,  and  compares  the  writing  therein  with  this  of  the  min- 
ister's letter.  She  needs  all  the  assurances  he  has  given 
her  to  make  these  lines  and  pages  look  not  their  worst.  But 
she  will  write  to  him,  because  she  has  promised.  She  will 
do  her  very  best.  She  will  tell  him  of  those  things  he 
speaks  of ;  and  what  he  desires  to  know  of  herself.  If  she 
tells  all  that  concerns  her,  it  will  still  be  little.  There  has 
little  happened  since  he  went  away.  Nothing  happens  in 
Martindale.  So  it  seems  to  her  !  But  it  was  not  news  he 


186  PETER  CARRADINE. 

asked  for  in  the  letter.  No,  he  had  not  named  a  name  but 
hers. 

She  wishes  that  Sally  was  here  to  read  the  letter  with 
her.  She  wishes  that  Mr.  Collamer  were  here,  that  she 
might  speak  to  him  about  Sally  ;  for  Randy  feels  troubled. 
Did  Oliver  Savage  join  her  ?  Of  course  he  must  have 
fallen  in  with  her  on  the  way  home.  Her  heart  sinks  under 
the  weight  of  a  foreboding.  If  there  were  anything  in  the 
letter  that  would  serve  her  friend  to  know — if  he  had  men- 
tioned her,  or  spoken  kind  words  of  her,  Miranda  thinks  she 
would  go  down  to  Elder  Green's  in  the  morning  on  purpose 
to  tell  Sally  and  give  her  the  letter. 

But  is  she  sorry  that  he  made  no  mention  of  Sally  ?  Why 
did  her  eyes  first  scan  the  pages,  and  then  turn  back  with 
quiet  satisfaction  to  begin  at  the  beginning  ?  Why  had  she 
felt  disturbed  to  know  that  Elder  Green  had  heard  from  Mr. 
Collamer  ?  Why  was  she  so  conscious  that  she  and  Sally 
were  not  dealing  quite  fairly  and  openly  by  each  other  these 
last  ten  days  1  What  meaning  had  she  heard  in  Sally's 
words  ?  What  token  bad  she  seen  in  Sally's  face  when  she  had 
spoken  so  familiarly  of  him,  and  of  his  need  of  a  rich  wife  ? 
— as  though  she  were  hesitating  in  her  mind  whether  or  not 
the  man  should  be  more  to  her  than  a  friend  ?  Were  they 
both  drawn  towards  him  in  a  way  that  estranged  them  from 
each  other  ?  Could  she  find,  to  her  satisfaction,  constant 
proof  that  these  two  had  no  fitness  for  each  other  ?  Did  she 
feel  in  the  least  tempted  to  encourage  the  suit  of  Oliver 
Savage  1  If  she  must  answer  any  of  these  questions  with  a 
"  yes,"  where,  among  her  thoughts,  stood  Senior  Jobson  ? 

In  her  strong  hand,  under  her  pillow,  lies  this  little  let- 
ter— a  lever  to  move  the  world.  Miranda  falls  asleep, 
knowing  she  has  a  new  friend  on  earth  ;  she  does  not  say  a 
friend  of  friends.  Yes  ;  he  is  just  and  true  ;  in  any  strait 
she  could  call  to  him,  and  he  would  be  her  helper.  He  is 
fulfilling  all  her  ideal ;  he  is  coming  day  by  day  into  her 
consciousness — a  king  of  men.  She  has  no  capability  of  re- 
verence, no  impulse  to  homage  or  adoration,  that  cannot 
culminate  in  him.  Beyond  that  she  is  incapable,  and  it 
must  rest  with  him  whether  from  that  point  they  shall  as- 
cend to  heaven,  or  descend  to  the  blackness  of  darkness. 

But  a  solemn  dream  oppresses  Randy  when  she  sleeps. 
All  night  she  walks  among  ruins.  Up  and  down  crumbling 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  THE  LOVERS.  187 

staircases,  through  deserted  rooms,  whose  walls  and  roof  are 
broken,  whose  floors  are  unsafe.  And  where  she  walks 
dancing  feet  have  been,  and  laughing  human  voices — and 
eyes  softened  by  love  ;  and  hands  have  crossed  in  friendship 
and  have  clasped  in  hate.  Lights  have  flashed  that  prom- 
ised to  illuminate  all  coming  darkness,  so  proudly  they 
glowed,  and  they  have  burned  out  !  There  has  been  music 
that  left  nothing  to  be  desired,  and  harp  and  viol  are  broken, 
and  the  singer's  voice  and  the  musician's  hand  are  alike  to 
be  known  no  more. 

Over  the  walls  the  ivy  creeps  ;  the  owl  looks  down  and 
seems  to  reason  sadly.  Is  this  the  old  tavern  ?  Is  this  the 
Spread  Eagle  ? 

Come,  oh  builders,  and  restore  the  ruin  !  Plant  the  stair- 
case and  relay  the  floors !  Give  to  the  house  a  roof  once 
more,  and  purity  to  the  walls  !  and  loving  voices  and  kind 
eyes,  and  willing  steps  to  the  dark  solitude.  For  still  the 
world  shall  stand,  amid  the  ruin  of  neglect ;  though  you 
cannot  atone  for  the  past,  oh  !  can  you  not  hope  for  the  fu* 
ture? 

In  wakefulness,  perplexity,  unrest,  Sarah  Green  is  watch- 
ing through  the  night.  Not  indeed  dreaming  of  a  ruin, 
which  haply  the  morning  shall  rebuke.  She  prayed  that 
she  might  not  be  led  into  temptation  when  she  came  into 
her  room,  but  since  she  arose  from  her  knees,  has  she  not 
ceased  that  playful  strife  with  the  tempter.  For  there  is  no 
earnest  rallying  around  her  conscience  in  the  endeavor  to 
save  her  soul  alive. 

Her  heart  is  full  of  disappointment  and  of  passion.  Her 
self-willed  spirit,  in  its  rebound  from  opposition,  is  set  with 
a  tiger's  courage  and  purpose.  She  would  not  grieve  past 
all  consolation  to  know,  in  the  morning,  that  Randy  would 
never  waken  to  the  light  again.  Well,  then,  had  she  loved 
Mr.  Collamer  ?  She  denied  it  when,  alone  here  in  her 
chamber,  she  surprised  herself  by  that  question.  Where- 
fore, then,  so  take  to  heart  the  fact  that  he  had  sent  those 
books,  above  all  that  letter,  to  her  friend  ?  She  pursued 
not  this  train  of  investigation,  but  her  thoughts  turned,  as 
if  with  a  fatal  finally,  to  Oliver  Savage. 

But  half-shuddering  she  thought  of  him.  Still  she  held 
herself  to  the  thought.  She  had  never  felt  so  kindly  to- 
wards him  as  to-night.  When  he  took  her  hand  and  they 


188  PETER  CARRADINE. 

walked  along  together,  his  voice  had  never  before  so  pleas- 
ant  a  sound.  And  when  they  passed  by  Mr.  Carradine, 
and  hands  speedily  unclasped,  and  each  walked  alone, 
though  side  by  side — hands  clasped  again,  as  by  an  involun- 
tary impulse,  the  moment  he  was  beyond  sight,  how  thought 
she  of  this  1  With  a  pity  for  poor  Oliver  ?  For  then  she 
must  recall  how  he  began' to  speak  to  her  of  himself,  and  his 
complaint  because  every  body  seemed  to  be  against  him. 
He  almost  despaired,  he  said,  of  ever  getting  on  in  the 
world.  Other  men  had  friends  to  help  them.  He  would 
go  to  sea,  he  thought.  There  was  nothing  for  him  on  land. 

What  did  he  mean,  she  asked  ?  And  Sarah  tried,  as  she 
now  remembered,  to  speak  with  indifference  ;  but  she  felt 
sorry  for  poor  Oliver,  and  wanted  to  help  him.  If  all  men 
stood  against  him  ! — her  pride  seemed  to  be  roused — she 
would  like  to  show  all  men  that  Oliver  Savage  was  not  to 
be  used  that  way  in  this  world  !  She  could  make  of  him  a 
man  to  be  envied.  She  had  half  a  mind  to  try !  What  if 
she  defied  all  counsel  and  judgment !  Others  did  not  un- 
derstand him  ;  they  could  not  see  him  as  she  did.  He  did 
not  speak  to  others  as  he  spoke  to  her. 

When  she  asked  him  what  he  meant,  he  had  answered 
that  she  knew  very  well.  And  when  she  assured  him  that 
she  did  not  know,  he  said  : 

"  If  I  had  you,  Sally,  I  wouldn't  mind  the  speech  of  peo- 
ple, nor  any  other  thing." 

"  I  don't  see,"  she  had  answered,  "  what  great  difference 
the  having  of  me  would  make,  Oliver." 

Then  he  said — she  recalled  each  word,  and  its  tone  ;  how 
strange  that  any  word  of  his  should  move  her  so  that  it 
should  seem,  while  he  was  speaking,  that  if  he  felt  thus 
towards  her,  no  matter  what  all  the  world  thought ! 

"  Because  I  love  you  so  that  you  would  satisfy  me,  and 
nothing  else  in  this  world  would.  I  thought  up  there  in 
the  woods  that,  now  I  had  got  religion,  I  should  be  happy. 
But  I've  been  miserable  ever  since.  It  seems  to  me  it's 
you  I  ought  to  get,  instead  of  religion,  to  make  me  religious. 
And  it's  come  to  the  pass  that,  if  I've  got  to  give  up  the 
thought  of  you,  I'm  giving  up  everything  else.  There's  no- 
thing else  I  want.  There's  nothing  else  that  has  the  power 
to  keep  me  out  of  harm's  way." 

Sarah  Green  trembled  to  hear  these   words,   they   were 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  THE  LOVERS.  189 

spoken  with  such  passionate  power,  and  she  yielded  herself 
to  believe  that  she  believed  them.  To  imagine  that  she 
thought  herself  responsible,  even  as  he  pronounced  her  to 
be,  for  the  future  of  the  lad. 

Besides,  he  said  he  loved  her.  That  word  had  a  sound 
as  if  spoken  by  the  voice  of  the  charmer.  When  she  came 
to  the  fact  that  it  was  only  Oliver  who  said  it ! — but  for  a 
moment  it  was  the  word,  and  the  sound,  that  arrested  the 
woman. 

They  had  not  gone  immediately  home.  They  wandered 
far  out  of  their  way,  down  under  the  willows,  along  the  mar- 
gin of  the  deep,  swift-flowing  creek. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  hear  you  say  such  things,"  she  had  re- 
plied. "  It  is  of  no  use.  No  use  at  all.  It  can  never  be." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  with  confidence,  "  it  is.  You  feel  just 
as  I  do." 

This  tone,  so  unusual,  so  unexpected,  astonished  Sarah 
Green.  Before  she  could  answer,  he  continued  : 

"  If  any  one  should  tell  me  that  you  liked  another  man 
better  than  me,  I'd  not  believe  it — -not  a  word.  And  if  I 
went  away  because  I'm  a  poor  man,  and  you're  a  rich  girl, 
too  proud  to  marry  me,  I  should  know  all  the  while  that 
you  was  thinking  of  me — and  if  you  married  another  man, 
you  would  not  love  him  half  as  well." 

Did  she  resent  this  speech "?  Did  she  succumb  to  it  ? 
She  said  : 

"  Is  it  my  fault  that  I  am  the  daughter  of  Elder  Green, 
and  that  he  is  what  you  call  a  rich  man  1" 

"  No — but  it's  an  almighty  little  circumstance  that  you 
are  going  to  let  come  between  us,  to  ruin  both  of  us.  It 
isn't  the  richer  or  poorer  that  has  anything  to  do  with  this. 
Can't  you  see  it,  Sally  ?  As  if  it  was  your  money  that  I 
loved  !" 

"  I  can't  think,"  said  Sally ;  "  while  you  speak  so,  it 
seems  to  me  it  must  be  true — but  I  know  all  the  while  it 
isn't.  Everybody  says  it  isn't." 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  true  !"  he  repeated.  "  I  knew  that  you  must 
see  it  at  last.  All  that  ever  made  you  think  it  isn't  true,  is 
because  you  have  been  trained  up  so  that  you  take  other 
folks'  opinions  of  me  for  your  own.  But  they're  not  your 
own.  They  never  were,  and  never  will  be.  I  love  you 
with  all  my  life — and  you  love  me  as  well.  There  isn't 


ICO  PETER   CARRADINE. 

anything  so  beautiful  to  me  in  all  the  world  as  Sally 
Green." 

"  If  it  is  so — "  she  began,  then  she  hesitated. 

"  If  it  is  so,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  words  hastily  ;  "  if  it 
is  so,  who's  a  right  to  say  a  word  against  it  ?" 

"  Nobody  !"  said  she. 

"  Then  it's  settled." 

This  climax  of  his  argument  startled  her. 

"  No  it  isn't.  It  isn't.  What  have  you  been  talking 
about  ?  You  seem  to  think  you  have  only  to  show  your 
pretty  face,  and  a  woman  will  be  sure  to  like  it  !" 

"  Now,  Sally  Green  !  Did  I  see  you  for  the  first  time 
yesterday,  or  last  week  ?  or  have  I  loved  you  all  my  life — 
all  my  life  ?  And  I  won't  say  yet  it's  a  pretty  fool  I've 
made  of  myself.  For  I  know  how  it  will  all  end." 

"  But  you  know,  too,  how  it  must  come  about.  Oh,  you 
are  cruel — it's  wicked  of  you.  If  they  take  you  home  to 
live,  it  will  be  because  I  am  their  only  child.  But  what 
right  have  I  to  disappoint  them  ?  That's  all,  Oliver." 

"  What  right  has  any  one  to  come  between  you  and  the 
man  you  love  1" 

"  Let  me  be  sure  first  that  I  love  him,  anyway,"  said  she, 
continually  revolting  against  the  show  of  confidence  he  made 
in  his  assertions — and  yet  they  were  having  an  increasing 
weight — and  he  could  see  that  they  had. 

He  did  not  now  answer — and  she  added  presently  : 

"  As  you  say  it's  I  that  have  to  live  with  the  man — father 
isn't  going  to  marry  you,  nor  grandma,  nor — Huldah.  But 
don't  talk  about  it  any  more." 

"  There's  nothing  else  to  talk  about." 

"  Hundreds  of  things  !"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  gaily  ; 
but  as  he  continued  silent,  she  added,  "  wait  till  the  Fourth 
— we  can  talk  about  it  then,  when  we  are  all  at  the  celebra- 
tion." 

"  That  is  your  way—wait,  wait.  But  if  you  know  your 
mind,  Sally—" 

"That's  it;  I  don't" 

"  It's  only  because  you  like  to  be  cruel,  and  are  curious 
to  know  what  I'll  say  next.  I'll  say  nothing.  I'll  go  blow 
my  brains  out.  Blast  me  if  I  don't.  I  keep  a  pistol 
loaded." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  "  you  might  talk  a  little  dif- 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  THE  LOVERS.  191 

ferent.     You'll  live  as  long  as  you  can  draw  a  breath.   Talk 
reason." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  talking  at  all  ?" 

"  None,  to  be  sure." 

"  Then,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel,  we'll  just  say  '  fare- 
well forever.'  " 

Oliver  took  to  weeping. 

Then  she  must  console  him.  But  she  made  no  haste  in 
this.  Still,  before  he  could  break  out  into  the  inevitable  re- 
proaches, she  said  : 

"  Be  still,  then.  I  suppose  that  I  must  give  you  my 
word.  Take  it.  I'll  marry  you.  And  I  don't  care  if  it  is 
on  the  Fourth."  It  was  but  a  leap,  and  she  had  reached 
this  point ! 

Then  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  threw  his  arms  round  poor 
Sally,  and  kissed  her  into  a  conviction  that  all  this  was  wise 
and  well.  That  she  had  saved  his  life.  That  at  bottom  he 
was  a  noble  fellow.  That  she  loved  him.  That  she  was  not 
perverse,  and  ignorant  of  the  first  motion  of  true  and  royal 
love.  That  all  this  that  had  passed  was  not  the  mere  mad- 
ness of  passion.  That  jealousy,  envy,  pride,  self-will,  and 
nothing  nobler,  nothing  mightier,  made  the  power  of  the 
passion. 

Could  she  think  of  all  this  in  her  silent  chamber,  through 
the  wakeful  night,  with  composure,  with  satisfaction  1  But 
she  was  not  vascillating  in  her  mind.  At  first  she  thought 
it  was  all  folly,  at  least  to  have  promised  Oliver.  She  was 
surprised  at  that  promise — what,  to  fulfil  it  in  a  week !  But 
something  rose  within  her  to  stop  this  vascillation.  Why 
not  first,  as  well  as  last  ?  It  had  been  a  long  time  now,  as 
Oliver  said,  that  this  might  be  the  end.  Loved  him — he 
called  it.  Had  she  loved  him  ?  How  well  he  seemed  to 
know  her.  Yes,  it  must  be  so.  Yes,  it  was  so. 

Of  course  her  father  and  grandma  would  not  like  it.  But 
they  would  take  Oliver  home  He  could  live  here,  in  this 
house.  Room  enough — that  was  not  the  objection.  And  why 
should  she  not  be  married  ?  Then  her  father,  after  all,  if 
he  were  not  so  obstinate,  might  be  glad  of  the  son  be  would 
have.  He  had  said  many  times  that  Oliver  was  an  excel- 
lent hand  at  work ;  and,  moreover,  among  such  good  people, 
he  would  doubtless  b€feome  the  man  they  blamed  him  for  not 
being  !  She  could  find  it  in  her  heart  to  pity  the  life  he  -led 


192  PETER    CARRADINE. 

on  that  miserable  farm  with  his  people.  They  would  not 
miss  him.  And  then — if  he  was  poor !  She  was  rich 
enough  for  two ;  she  would  be  glad  to  share  her  all  with 
him.  And  if  her  father  would  not  be  reconciled,  he  could 
give  her  her  portion,  and  they  might  then  go  live  where 
they  pleased  ;  out  ia  the  world,  far  away  from  stupid  Mar- 
tin dale. 

But,  my  young  friend,  you  see  it  was  the  last  thought  she 
had  that  there  could  be  anything  like  duty  in  consulting  with 
these  home  friends — that  she  had  no  apparent  suspicion 
that,  of  all  persons  in  the  world,  they  might  be  the  best 
and  most  loving  ! 

And,  my  old  friend,  you  are  moralizing  on  life's  failure, 
threatened  here.  You  are  saying,  all  this,  and  worse, 
comes  of  teaching  a  child,  from  the  cradle,  that  his  will  and 
his  pleasure,  by  no  means  his  parents',  is  to  control  his 
life.  You  see  a  sin  in  such  training,  and  you  say,  "  The 
wages  of  sin  is  death." 

Good  people,  in  general,  let  us  go  to  sleep,  for  it  is  heart- 
breaking to  think  of  these  things. 

Would  you  have  Sarah  Green  become  the  hindrance  and 
disturbance  of  a  good  man's  life  ?  The  defeat  of  his  ca- 
reer, the  disappointment  of  his  heart  ?  Let  her  alone  ; 
there  are  enough  to  take  that  work  upon  them. 

Would  you  have  Oliver  Savage  degrading  the  excellence 
of  any  purer  woman  ?  The  scourge  to  drive  her  on  to  hea- 
ven or  to  hell  ?  Nay,  rather  leave  me  this  one  man,  and 
experiment  among  your  neighbors. 


THE  DECLARATION  READ.  193 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE     DECLARATION     KEAD. 

BY  two  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  of  July, 
the  school-house  was  well  filled  with  the  children  and  their 
parents,  who  had  come  in  to  attend  the  examination.  The 
morning  review  had  passed  off  with  such  success  as  to 
bring  out  in  full  force  all  the  neighborhood  as  witnesses  of 
the  second  part. 

Sarah  Green  went  down  for  Miranda  in  the  morning,  and 
found  her  making  all  haste  with  the  housework — and  she 
was  spared  that  solicitation  she  had  supposed  she  must 
make  before  Kandy  would  be  persuaded  to  attend  the  "  pub- 
lic." For  Miranda  had  promised  Miss  Fuller  she  would 
come,  and  the  teacher  had  asked  it  as  a  personal  favor. 

So  there  were  Sarah  and  Miranda  sitting  side  by  side 
all  day.  And  in  the  afternoon  Oliver  Savage  came  ;  and 
Mr.  Carradine  was  in  constant  attendance,  and  the  entire 
Green  family,  and  the  Johnsons,  and  the  Jobsons,  except 
Senior,  and  all  those  other  people  of  whom  we  know  noth- 
ing, not  their  names  even,  who  took  an  interest  in  the 
teacher,  and  towards  whom,  every  one,  Miss  Fuller  held  so 
friendly  a  relation.  It  was  noticeable  that,  though  on  Sun- 
days very  few  of  the  men  wore  their  coats  at  the  meeting, 
those  now  gathered  in  the  school-room  were  in  full  dress. 
There  was  a  smell  of  dill  and  caraway,  and  an  odor  of  sweet 
clover,  mild  and  permeating,  that  met  whoever  entered  by 
that  lowly  door  ;  and  there  was  an  order  and  quiet,  a  neat- 
ness and  decency,  through  the  mass  of  persons,  as  well  as 
proceedings,  that  seemed  to  many  a  person  to  emanate  from 
the  teacher. 

It  was  what  Mr.  Carradine  thought,  namely,  that  every 
pleasant  influence  of  the  place  was  directly  inspired  by  her. 

9 


194  PETER   CARRADINE. 

She  had  on  a  white  dress  to-day,  it  might  be  for  the  ben- 
efit of  Sally,  who  pretended  a  mortal  aversion  to  the  "  old 
blue."  How  pure  !  the  very  embodiment  of  purity,  and  the 
illustration  of  goodness,  she  looked,  to  Peter  Carradine  ! 
Then  what  an  attitude  was  that  maintained  by  her  towards 
these  children  !  so  full  of  friendly  condescension  !  so  full  of 
tender  interest  1 

They  all  felt  that  they  must  do  their  best,  in  justice  to 
her.  Without  having  inspired  in  them  any  hateful  spirit  of 
emulation,  she  seemed  to  have  so  influenced  them  that  they 
took  pleasure  and  pride  in  showing  what  she  had  done  in 
their  behalf.  They  were  proud  of  their  teacher.  But,  they 
were  very  human  children,  too.  Do  net  suppose  that  she 
had  trodden  upon  roses  while  she  led  them,  and  had  felt 
no  thorns.  This  school  was  very  much  like  others — a  rab- 
ble of  young  folk  ;  only  she  had  been  successful  to  a  degree 
that  astonished  beholders  in  controlling  them.  And  that 
was  all. 

In  going  through  the  exercises — in  the  elocution,  and 
the  reading,  and  the  singing,  and  arithmetic,  they  had  done 
themselves  and  Miss  Fuller  great  credit — and  now  the  two 
hours  of  examination  were  ended. 

Miss  Fuller  signified  it  by  rising  in  her  place  and  saying  : 

"  The  exercises  are  now  concluded,  my  friends.  Next 
Monday  the  school  will  open  again.  I  hope  the  children 
will  all  come  punctually,  so  that  we  may  go  on  with  our 
studies  without  any  useless  delay.  I  thank  you  for  all  your 
attention." 

She  turned  away  from  the  table,  as  if  expecting  that  they 
would  now  depart. 

But  through  the  last  half  hour  Peter  Carradine  had  been 
nervously  waiting  for  this  very  moment,  and  now  arose,  and 
exclaimed  in  a  voice  that  arrested  every  soul : 

"  Friends !" 

He  saw  that  all  eyes  were  on  him  ;  there  was  no  retreat. 
He  must  go  on  ;  and  he  had  no  wish  to  do  otherwise  ;  this 
was  his  time  of  pride. 

"Friends  !"  he  repeated,  and  he  established  his  footing 
more  securely,  and  looking  around  him,  proceeded  with  de- 
liberation. "  I  am  sure  you  must  all  be  pleased  with  this 
exhibition.  I  see  you  are.  And  I  think  we  have  all  good 
reason  to  feel  satisfied.  Miss  Fuller  has  done  us  a  great 


THE  DECLARATION  READ.  195 

honor  by  teaching  the  children  of  Martindale  this  summer. 
I  don't  think  she  would  be  afraid  to  have  us  ask  the  children 
what  they  think  of  her  !  So  I  propose,  for  the  children's 
sake,  that  Miss  Fuller  have  the  thanks  of  the  people  of  Mar- 
tindale for  her  kind  attention  to  our  little  folks.  If  she  was 
a  gentleman  teacher  she  would  expect  it  of  us.  But,  see- 
ing she  is  a  lady  teacher,  she  don't  expect  it,  I  suppose — 
yet  that's  no  good  reason  why  we  shouldn't  give  her  what's 
her  due.  Those  in  favor  of  it  please  say  '  Aye  !'  ' 

Again  he  looked  around,  and  a  broad  smile  covered  his 
massive  face  when  the  response  rolled  up  from  young  and 
old. 

"  There  it  is,  ma'am,"  said  he,  with  a  not  ungraceful  hand- 
waive,  as  if  offering  her  a  gift.  Then,  immediately,  he  con- 
tinued— he  would  not  risk  his  opportunity — "  I  was  going  to 
ask  a  favor  of  the  teacher,"  said  he,  and  this  time  his  eyes 
fell  to  the  floor,  and  when  he  lifted  them  it  was  on  Miss 
Fuller  his  gaze  fixed.  "  To-morrow,  ma'am,  is  the  Fourth 
of  July.  For  one  reason  and  another,  we,  up  here  in  Mar- 
tindale, always  feel  that  we  must  go  from  home  to  have  our 
celebration.  We  are  either  too  poor  or  too  stingy,  or  else 
we  don't  really  care  for  the  day.  So  it  seemed  to  me,  as 
long  as  we  were  all  going  to  be  here  together,  old 
friends  and  neighbors  so,  we  might  ask  Miss  Fuller  to  read 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  for  us,  if  she  would  be  so 
kind.  I  brought  it  along  with  me — and  see'  here,  friends  ! 
haven't  we  got  our  revolutionary  relic  here,  too  1  Here's 
neighbor  Gibbs.  Can't  we  have  our  Fourth  of  July  in  Mar- 
tindale ?  It's  only  taking  time  by  the  forelock — and 
that's  what  our  fathers  did  in  the  war  !  Can't  we  shout,  up 
here,  '  Long  live  the  Fourth  of  July !'  on  our  own  account, 
as  well  as  go  off  to  say  it  with  the  people  of  Brighton  ?" 

As  he  closed  his  speech,  Mr.  Carradine  advanced  to  the 
table,  and  laid  the  book  before  the  teacher.  She  bowed, 
but  looked  around  her  to  see  if  Mr.  Carradine's  wish  met  a 
response  ;  for  a  moment  there  was  dead  stillness  in  the 
school-room,  and  several  persons  felt  as  if  they  should  fly, 
according  to  subsequent  confession,  they  were  so  excited, 
and  so  amazed  too. 

Then  up  rose  Elder  Green,  driven  as  at  the  spear  point 
by  the  looks  and  motions  of  his  wife,  with  many  breaks,  he 
said : 


196  PETER    CAERADINE. 

'•  It  gives  me — great  pleasure — Miss  Fuller,  to  second 
Mr.  Carradine's  request.  I  feel  to  say  that  he  has  ex- 
pressed an  unanimous  desire  of  the  friends  here  present. 
The  exercises  have  done  you  great  credit,  certin." 

"  Oh,  make  an  end,  Elder  !"  said  his  mother,  by  a  tele- 
graphic sign.  But  he  seemed  to  take  no  heed,  went  on 
dragging  the  words  out  one  after  another,  investigating 
each  apparently  from  its  root  to  ita  extremities,  as  he  palled 
it  up. 

"  The  town  of  Martindell  ought,  certin,  to  have  the  day 
commemorated.  And  if  the  children  hear  the  Declaration 
read  by — by  their  instructor,  to-day — they,  and  the  friends 
assembled,  will  not  be  likely  to  forget  the — '  the  day  we 
celebrate.'  " 

So  saying,  he  bowed  all  around  and  sat  down. 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  the  applause  that  followed,  in  lead- 
ing which  Oliver  Savage  was  boisterously  conspicuous,  Miss 
Fuller  advanced  yet  nearer  to  the  table,  took  up  the  book, 
and  looking  over  the  assembly,  she  seemed  to  see  a  pleased 
expectance,  an  endorsement  of  this  wish  on  every  face. 

"  It  gives  me  pleasure,"  she  said,  "  to  think  I  can  confer 
a  pleasure,  my  friends.  I  thank  you  for  allowing  me  to 
serve  you."  Then  she  opened  the  book,  sat  down,  and  read 
from  first  to  last  that  noble  Declaration.  Read  it  all — 
powerfully  —  movingly — to  the  astonishment  of  every  au- 
ditor ;  who  felt  quite  sure,  maybe  because  it  was  their  cele- 
bration, that  never  had  it  been  so  read  by  man  or  woman. 
This  decision  will  have  a  hundred  repetitions  to-morrow. 
Martindale  will  be  a  critic. 

"  Now's  your  time,  uncle,"  said  Carradine  to  neighbor 
Gibbs,  when  Mercy  had  closed  with  that  famous,  solemn 
pledge,  "  Our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and  our  sacred  honor." 
The  old  man,  who  had  sat  as  if  on  the  point  of  springing  to 
his  feet  any  time  the  last  ten  minutes,  in  spite  of  his  age 
and  infirmity,  did  not  wait  for  urging. 

He  got  up,  sustaining  himself  by  his  staff — steadied  him- 
self, old,  shrunken,  white-haired,  wrinkled  mummy  of  a 
man,  veteran  of  '76,  and  said,  (who  that  heard  him  would 
forget  the  change  from  his  usual  mumbling  tone  to  anything 
so  direct,  and  clear,  and  manly)  : 

"  I  can't  make  so  much  noise  of  hurraying,  my  dear,  as  I 
could  onct,"  he  said,  when  the  vehement  cheering  that 


THE  DECLARATION  READ.  197 

greeted  his  rising  had  subsided;  "but  I  thank'ee.  Goody 
gracious !  I  never  heerd  the  like  o'  that  afore.  I'll  ne'er 
hear  its  like  again.  It  seems  to  make  a  boy  o'  me.  Now 
I've  got  some  tokens  of  old  time  up  to  my  housen.  If 
you'll  come  over  you  shall  take  your  pick.  I've  been 
offered  sums  for  'em  ;  but  I  want  you  should  have  your 
pick."  So  saying,  he  wheeled  about,  as  if  at  an  order  in 
his  prime,  and  said  : 

"  Come,  Peter,  you  promised  to  get  me  back  safe,  lad. 
I'm  old — I'm  past  threescore  and  ten." 

So,  though  the  assembly  had  risen,  every  one  stood  back, 
and  let  Mr.  Carradine  lead  out  old  neighbor  Gibbs ;  and 
many  were  the  kindly  words  addressed  to  both  men  by  the 
bystanders.  Never  was  Peter  Carradine  seen  to  such  ad- 
vantage as  on  this  afternoon. 

"  A  pretty  fine  hedgehog,  after  all,"  said  Sally  to  Miranda, 
but  just  then  Carradine  held  out  his  hand  to  Randy  and 
shook  it  heartily,  and  said  aloud,  (he  meant  every  one  should 
hear)  : 

"  I  thank  you  for  coming.  I  wouldn't  have  expected  it 
of  another  girl  but  you." 

"  He  might  better  kept  his  opinions  to  himself  at  this 
time  o'  day,"  said  Sally  Green.  Randy  frowned  at  her,  and 
repenting  the  frown,  smiled — somebody  said  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes.  And  Oliver  Savage  laughed. 

But  Randy  said  aloud,  so  all  around  her  heard  : 

"  Do  you  suppose  I'm  not  glad  there's  such  a  teacher 
come  to  Martindale  as  Miss  Fuller.  I've  expressed  my 
mind  about  it  often  enough."  And  she  went  to  speak  with 
the  teacher. 

At  which  Sally  looked  vexed,  and  turned  on  young  Sav- 
age with  a  "  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?"  that  silenced 
him. 

The  rest  of  Martindale  were  thinking  with  considerable 
self-gratulation  that  they  had  for  once  celebrated  the  Fourth 
at  home,  without  any  drinking,  and  without  any  expense. 
But  this  fact  only  incited  them,  for  the  most  part,  still  more 
urgently  to  go  down  to  Brighton  next  day,  and  spend  what  had 
thus  been  saved,  both  of  money  and  time,  according  to  the 
good  old  Jefferson  counsel. 


198  PETER   CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FOUETH   OF   JULY   IN   PROSPECT. 

THAT  should  have  been  a  pleasant  night  in  Martindale, 
•when  everywhere  the  busy  preparations  went  on  for  due  cel- 
ebration of  to-morrow.  It  was  rare  that  lights  were  seen 
burning  so  late  in  the  farm-houses  round  about.  When  all 
to-morrow's  house  work  that  it  was  possible  to  anticipate 
was  done,  busy  fingers  were  still  flying — unfinished  frills 
and  flounces  must  be  gathered  and  sewed  ;  nothing  must  bo 
left  till  morning.  Sufficient  for  that  day  was  the  work  there- 
of. 

In  Sarah  Green's  closet  hung  the  white  muslin,  freshly 
starched  and  ironed  ;  the  blue  ribbons  in  her  drawer  were 
ready  to  put  on.  She  had  no  work  to  do.  She  might  go 
early  to  bed,  as  her  mother  counselled  ;  advice  on  which 
she  meant  herself  to  act,  with  the  rest  of  the  house.  But 
Sally  did  not  feel  the  need  of  sleep — and  the  stillness  of  the 
old  house  oppressed  her  when  she  sat,  she  alone  wakeful,  in 
her  room,  till  midnight. 

She  could  but  think  it  might  be  the  last  night  she  could 
spend  in  that  room.  If,  as  she  did  not  in  the  least  fear,  if 
after  to-morrow  her  father  should  forbid  her  to  come  into 
his  house,  was  she  prepared  to  renounce  it  forever  ?  She 
asked  herself  the  question,  knowing  that  a  very  different  fu- 
ture was  in  store  for  her.  They  should  return  to  this  old 
farm-house — and  it  might  be  to  this  very  chamber.  And 
she  was  satisfied  with  Oliver  for  her  portion. 

But,  somewhat  disturbed,  she  had  been  in  the  school-room 
and  since,  thinking  of  Miss  Fuller.  The  secret  of  her  life, 
its  beauty  and  its  strength,  was  full  of  mystery,  and  of  en- 
ticing mystery  to  Sarah,  when  she  had  come  within  its  in- 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  PROSPECT.       199 

fluence,  and  subsequently  when  the  examination  at  the 
school,  and  the  reading  of  the  Declaration,  furnished  themes 
for  home-talk.  That  was  a  very  different  kind  of  life  from 
the  one  she  was  now  leading,  and  had  been  leading  during 
the  past  days — so  tranquil,  calm  and  pure — so  lovely  and 
so  good. 

But  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Sally  could  not  make 
excuses  for  herself,  that  she  could  not  say  that  such  a  life  as 
Miss  Fuller's  was  not  the  life  for  her.  That  she  could  not 
find  some  merit  in  the  act  she  contemplated  for  to-morrow's 
celebration  ;  that  she  could  not  see  in  the  conduct  of  her  pa- 
rents, justification  of  her  own  acts. 

Why    should   not  persons,    when   they   gave   themselves 
away,  consult  their  own  hearts  in  the  act,  and  not  the   wis- 
dom of  another  ?       Of  course  she  was  the  person  most  con- . 
cerned  ;  it  was  to  a  very  narrow  argument,  and  a  very  nar- 
row view  of  that  narrowness,  that  she  confined  herself. 

But  how  restless  the  girl  was  !  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  on  which  she  could  fix  her  thoughts  for  two  mo- 
ments with  anything  like  repose  or  satisfaction.  She  could 
not  even  fix  her  eyes  on  anything  in  the  room  without  com- 
punction. Nothing  had  happened  since  she  came  home 
from  the  school-house  that  would  seem  in  itself  worthy  of 
record  ;  and  yet  there  was  not  a  half  hour  that  had  passed 
since  then  on  which  she  dared  trust  her  thoughts  to  dwell. 
The  conversation  with  grandma,  Esther  Green,  when  they 
went  out  together  in  the  garden  and  gathered  the^  first  ripe 
red  currants  for  tea,  when  grandma  told  again  the  stories 
of  old  celebrations  of  the  Fourth,  stories  which  Sarah  had 
heard  so  many  times !  It  seemed  to  Sarah,  while  her 
grandma  held  the  basket  into  which  she  poured  the  currants, 
that  her  hand  trembled  more  than  usual  ;  and  how  old  she 
looked  as  the  afternoon  sun  fell  broadly  on  her  face,  throw- 
ing every  wrinkle,  and  the  white  hair,  and  the  blue  eyes, 
into  such  relief !  And  when  they  walked  into  the  house  to- 
gether the  old  woman  said — never  would  Sarah  forget  her 
voice,  or  the  words  of  its  speech  : 

"  Well — well — time  is  short — but  eternity  is  long  !  How 
dreadful  for  them  who  will  have  to  repent  their  sins  through 
all  eternity  !  To  be  preyed  on  by  the  worm  that  never 
dies  !" 

And  it  occurred  to  Sarah,  when  she  helped  old  Esther  up 


200  PETER   CARRADINE. 

the  steps,  what  if  this  were  for  the  last  time  \  Possibly 
any  great  shock,  any  wounding  of  her  pride,  or  disappoint- 
ment of  her  wishes,  might  startle  her  out  of  existence. 
Stern,  harsh  woman  that  she  was,  who  would  care  to  throw 
a  shadow  on  the  aged  countenance,  when  the  blue  eyes  were 
taking  their  last  look  of  life  ?  Was  it  likely  that,  in  the  si- 
lence of  the  house,  and  the  solitude  of  her  chamber,  Sarah 
would  care  to  dwell  long  on  such  thoughts  as  these  ? 


Then,  when  she  was  plaiting  the  frill  to  be  pinned  in  the 
neck  of  her  dress,  and  her  mother  was  ironing  her  father's 
black  silk  neckerchief,  and  her  own  cap  strings  and  honnct 
ribbons,  and  Esther's  white  silk  handkerchief,  and  they 
might  talk  together  in  the  large  airy  kitchen,  so  orderly  and 
clean,  Huldah  had  said  : 

"  Seems  to  me  the  girls  don't  now-a-days  look  out  for  In- 
dependence as  we  used  to  do.  It  was  the  greatest  day  of 
summer  to  us  !  But  'twas  rare  that  it  came  up  to  what  we 
expected  of  it.  And  that  is  the  way  of  everything  I  find 
since  then." 

"  I  suppose  you  used  to  go  in  processions  with  your 
young  men  ;  and  you  won't  own  it,  mother,  but  that  was 
what  made  it  so  very  fine  to  you  !  You  don't  expect  I  could 
be  mighty  gay,  just  thinking  of  riding  over  to  Brighton  with 
you  and  father,  and  grandma,  behind  the  old  grays — those 
raw-boned  farm-horses  ?" 

"  Worth  a  thousand  dollars  the  span,  and  the  best  pacers 
in  the  country,"  said  Huldah. 

"Yes,  but  mother,  you  can't  expect  it  should  seem  so 
very  gay  to  me.  I  wish  I  coild  make  it,  but  I  can't.  I 
wish — "  here  she  had  spoken  after  a  little  pause,  with  ex- 
ceeding energy  ;  "  oh,  I  wish,  mother,  you  would  just  leave 
me  at  home.  And  I'll  have  a  long  quiet  day  here  by  my- 
self." 

Huldah  looked  up  from  her  work — she  was  more  troubled 
by  this  wish  than  she  betrayed  ;  not  only  because  Sally  ex- 
pressed it  with  so  much  vehemence  ;  she  had  felt  that  there 
was  something  she  did  not  understand  about  Sally  for  the 
last  week,  as  if  the  girl  had  some  purpose  in  her  mind  that 
no  one  knew,  and  which  her  mother  should  know. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  PROSPECT.  201 

"  Your  father  would  have  the  day  spoiled  for  him  out- 
right," said  she.  To  argue  on  her  own  ground,  or  in  her 
own  behalf,  would  have  been  folly.  She  did  not  deem  the 
Elder  quite  so  impotent. 

"  No,  but  you  could  persuade  him.  You  can  make  him 
see  that  black  is  white,  mother,  if  you  wish  to  do  it.  Come  !" 

"  But  why  should  I  do  it?  He  would  feel  just  as  dis- 
appointed, though  I  did  persuade  him  to  it.  The  Fourth 
don't  corne  but  once  a  year.  And  when  such  days  do  come, 
the  way  I  always  used  to  look  at  "em  was,  that  then  was  my 
time  to  do  what  my  parents  wanted  me  to  do,  for  when  the 
day  came  round  again  they  might  be  dead  and  gone  !" 

So  Sarah  had  abandoned  that  point.  Fate  would  have  its 
way  !  It  was  not  her  fault  if  they  insisted  on  her  going  to 
Brighton.  There  was  duty  towards  others  to  be  done,  as 
well  as  to  her  parents — she  had  promised  Oliver.  And  who 
would  dare  say  that  the  result,  if  she  should  disappoint  him, 
was  of  no  consequence  ? 

Then  she  ventured  to  say  to  Huldah  : 

"  If  I  could  go  now,  as  you  have  half-a-dozen  times,  with 
some  young  fellow  in  a  carriage,  driving  a  fast  horse,  that 
would  be  different!  And  I  had  such  an  invitation,  but  I 
knew  you  would  not  hear  to  it,  and  so  I  said  no." 

"  That  was  to  Oliver.  I  thank  you  for  that,  Sally,  and  so 
does  your  father." 

"  He  was  at  the  school-house  this  afternoon.  Did  you  see 
him,  mother  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  did  not  speak  to  him." 

"  But  I  was  off  'fc  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Of  course  I 
would  speak  to  him  if  he  was  near." 

"  He  is  a  member  now.  If  there  is  any  good  in  that,  the 
other  members  ought  to  show  it,  I  should  think." 

"  So  should  I,"  said  Huldah.  "  I  spoke  to  your  father, 
and  he  would  have  invited  him  to  tea,  but  he  takes  an  ell 
for  every  inch,  Oliver  does." 

"  Then  I  suppose  he  knows  it's  a  right  he  has  ;  for  he's  no 
fool." 

"  There's  no  one  hopes  of  better  things  for  Oliver  than  I 
do,"  said  poor  Huldah.  "  I'm  always  hoping  for  him." 

"  I  believe  it,"  replied  Sally.  "  I  believe  that,  if  you 
saw  he  was  likely  to  go  to  destruction,  you  would  put  out 

9* 


202  PETER   CARRADINE. 

your  hand  as  quick  and   as   far  as  any  other  one  to   save 
him." 

"I  think  I  would.  He  is  a  clever  lad.  He  might  tell 
you  I  have  showed  myself  his  true  friend  in  some  serious 
times." 

"  He  never  has  forgotten  anything  of  it  all.  He  calls  you 
his  second  mother,  sometimes,"  said  Sally,  who  had  re- 
served this  argument  for  an  emergency.  It  had  its  weight. 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Huldah,  "  I'd  warn  him  as  quick  as  I 
would  an  own  son  ;  and,  as  you  say,  I'd  go  as  far  to  save 
him  as  any  other  person." 

"  You  wouldn't  stop  to  think  whether  others  would  go  a 
far  ;  you'd  look  at  your  own  heart  and  let  that  take  you  ;  so 
I've  heard  you  saying,  mother,  many's  the  time." 

Huldah  could  not  deny  this.  Perhaps  she  had  no  wish 
to  do  so,  but  she  was  disturbed  by  the  feeling  that  her 
words  were  carried  farther  than  she  meant  to  have  them  go  ; 
and  were  used  in  other  ways  than  she  intended.  So  she 
said  : 

"  It's  difficult  dealing  with  a  young  man  like  him.  He  is 
the  kind  that  takes  the  ell  when  you  give  him  an  inch.  No- 
body would  have  a  right  to  help  him  at  his  own  expense. 
I  mean,  you  couldn't,  Sally !  He  don't  sense  things  as  a 
young  man  ought.  He's  reckless,  and  don't  think  of  any 
body  as  he  does  of  himself.  No  right  down  good  man 
could  dress  himself  as  he  does,  and  think  so  much  of  his 
fine  looks,  with  his  hair  puckered  in  that  way,  like  a  girl's, 
and  that  blue  vest  and  white  neck  tie.  He  looks  like  a 
different  person  when  he  has  on  his  working  rig.  But  when 
he  has  on  his  finery  he  is  feared  of  the  rain  as  if  he  was 
made  of  sugar.  Besides  the  money  throw  i  away  on  such 
things,  and  he  can't  afford." 


Then  her  father  had  come  into  the  kitchen  and  called  for 
a  candle  and  said  : 

"  Here's  a  letter  from  Mr.  Collamer,  to  read — out  of 
sight  ain't  out  o'  mind  with  him."  And  when  the  candle 
was  lighted  and  brought  to  him  by  Sally,  she  stood  holding 
it  till  he  should  read  the  letter. 

It  was  full  of  pleasantness.      The  minister  told  of  his  sit- 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  PROSPECT.       203 

uation,  his  charge  and  his  church  ;  added  some  items  in  re- 
spect to  the  society  at  large,  its  prosperity  and  prospects  ; 
inquired  after  the  neighbors,  but  particularly  after  Elder 
Green's  own  household,  especially  after  his  daughter.  "Was 
she  in  good  health  ?  And,  if  she  should  find  it  too  much 
trouble  to  reply,  would  he  make  her  his  scribe  ?  And  he 
sent  his  love,  a  Christian  brother's  love,  to  Esther  Green 
and  Huldah. 

Poor  Calvin  Green !  he  thought  much  of  Mr.  Colla- 
mer  ;  and  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  Sally  as  if  his  thoughts  were 
engaged  in  a  novel  and  curious  speculation.  He  was  think- 
ing, in  fact,  that,  if  he  had  no  son-in-law  to  succeed  him  on 
the  farm — some  day,  when  he  and  his  mother,  and  his  wife, 
were  asleep  in  the  graveyard — it  might  be  well  if  his 
money  should  make  life  easy  to  some  hard-working  servant 
of  the  Lord,  in  holy  orders.  And  never  had  he  looked  at 
Sally  with  quite  such  longing  hope  as  now,  when  he  sat  with 
Mr.  Collamer's  letter  in  his  pocket,  watching  the  girl  as  she 
helped  her  mother  through  the  remaining  preparations  for 
the  Fourth.  Fair  was  she  in  his  eyes.  If  he  had  spent  on 
her  education  twice  as  much,  he  would  have  deemed  the  in- 
vestment about  the  best  he  had  ever  made. 

Of  all  these  things  must  Sally  think.  But  impatient  of 
these  thoughts,  she  went  to  bed,  determined  she  would 
think  no  more  ;  but  the  sleep  to  which  she  would  fain  resign 
herself  was  long  in  coming. 


204  PETER  CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE      FOURTH      IN      FACT. 

WE  begin  the  day  with  Mr.  Collamer.  He  sat  in  his 
study,  in  the  basement  of  his  church  ;  on  the  table  before 
him  lay  the  letters  which  a  little  lad  had  just  brought  him 
from  the  office.  What  time  he  gives  to  his  books,  or  to 
writing,  the  minister  spends  in  this  quiet  room  ;  but  he 
lodges  with  the  family  now  occupying  the  parsonage,  for  he 
cannot  see  why  he,  a  single  man,  should  burden  himself 
with  household  cares  ;  so,  with  consent  of  the  people,  he 
rented  the  house,  his  appointed  home  for  the  year. 

Among  the  papers  brought  to  him  is  a  well-folded  letter, 
bearing  an  address  as  legible  as  print,  which  he  opens,  first 
of  all.  He  smiles  as  he  glances  at  the  quaint  characters — 
but  his  eyes  fill  with  tears — tears  which  do  not  drive  away 
the  smile. 

"  It  has  cost  her  something,"  said  he  ;  and  he  turned  the 
page  to  see  the  length  of  the  letter  ;  it  might  have  been  tre- 
ble the  length,  and  yet  not  have  filled  the  sheet.  She  had 
taken  him  at  his  word,  he  found ;  had  told  him  of  Martin- 
dale,  of  the  neighbors,  of  the  crops,  of  the  services  held  in 
the  school-house  since  he  left.  And  he  read  every  word 
down  to  the  signing  of  her  name,  without  one  evidence  of 
indifference,  or  impatience,  or  proud  failure  of  appreciation 
of  these  humble  items.  There  was  one  paragraph  that  gave 
value  to  the  rest ;  he  read  it  more  than  once,  he  read  it  ma- 
ny times  ;  and  seemed  to  discern  in  its  wording  something 
to  be  prized. 

"  Now  I  have  written  to  you,  Sir,  my  heart  fails  me  to 
send  it.  But  something  bids  me,  kindly.  And  when  I  try 
to  find  the  meaning  of  it,  it  seems  to  pass  me,  and  come 
again  and  go  till  I  am  dizzied  trying  to  follow.  Then,  when 


THE  FOURTH  IN  FACT.  205 

I  stop  thinking,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  need  ask  for  no  other 
excuse,  since  you  wished  for  the  letter.  I  said  you  would 
be  ashamed  of  it !  But  I  seem  to  see,  Sir,  since  you  an- 
swered me,  that  there  is  nothing  to  excuse  such  a  feeling,  if 
the  heart  be  right.  And  I  mean  right  when  I  think  of  your 
business  in  this  world,  and  pray  to  God  to  bless  your  com- 
ing in  and  your  going  out,  your  preaching  and  praying,  your 
going  from  house  to  house,  your  baptizing  of  infants,  and 
your  comforting  the  sick  ;  and  the  sad  mourners,  and  your 
standing  by  the  open  graves  when  the  last  work  is  done  for 
the  poor  body  that  can  be  done  for  it  in  this  world." 

And  to  this  she  had  signed  her  name  in  full,  his  "  friend 
and  servant  in  the  Lord,  Miranda  Roy." 

He  said,  as  he  slowly  folded  the  letter  : 

"  I've  seen  prettier  women.  I've  heard  sweeter  voices 
than  hers  ;  and  them  it  might  be  easier  to  help  on  through 
life  ;  but  I  never  saw  a  woman  yet  I  thought  was  to  be 
trusted  as  she  is — gentler,  milder,  maybe — but  it's  like 
leaning  on  truth,  or  the  likest  thing  to  God's  truth,  to  rely 
on  her.  Steady  and  kind,  firm  and  tender  ;  good  things  in  a 
woman." 

He  beheld  her  this,  and  thought  upon  her  so.  And 
through  all  the  noise  and  clatter  of  the  day,  though  a  score 
of  interests  claimed  him,  and  varied  work  was  done,  a  pre- 
sence of  woman  seemed  to  go  with  the  young  minister. 
"  Steady  and  kind,  firm  and  tender."  It  might  almost  seem 
that,  unconsciously,  he  was  trying  to  establish  a  correspond- 
ence between  his  life  and  that  of  Miranda.  Was  it  possible 
that  he  should  do  so  without  some  abatement  of  his  own  pe- 
culiar power  ?  Was  it  possible  that  he  should  do  so,  and 
come  thus  into  fuller  possession  of  his  highest  power  ? 
That  he  should  come  thus  to  his  fullest  life  ? 


206  PETER    CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE      FACT      CONTINUED. 

Miss  FULLER  was  to  go  to  Brighton  with  Mrs.  Johnson, 
Johnson  driving  the  bays.  But  Carradino  seemed  not  quite 
persuaded  whether  to  go  down  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  or 
to  drive  in  his  buggy,  or  whether  he  should  go  at  all  to  the 
celebration. 

He  knew  that  Mercy  would  not  return  to-night ;  that  she 
would  spend  the  remainder  of  the  week  at  Commissioner 
Brown's  house,  with  her  friend,  Commissioner  Brown's 
daughter. 

He  was  very  much  disturbed  in  view  of  this  prospect. 
Mrs.  Johnson  had  told  him  what  her  purpose  was,  and  he 
had  said  to  himself  repeatedly  that  it  was  not  his  business  ; 
still  he  could  not  make  it  so.  He  felt,  in  opposition  to  this 
assertion,  that  it  was  his  business  ;  his  alone  ;  no  other 
person's  truly  ;  his  alone.  Man  full  of  gains,  he  seemed  to 
have  somehow  lost  his  soul. 

Of  course  it  was  absurd.  It  was  perfectly  silly  for  a  per- 
son of  his  years  and  standing  to  harass  his  mind  on  so  slight 
an  occasion.  Let  her  go  to  Brighton  ;  and  let  him  stay  or 
follow,  of  what  moment  was  this  ? 

But  when  he  saw  her  black  satchel  lying  on  the  table  in 
the  hall,  with  a  woollen  shawl  beside  it,  a  veil,  and  a  para- 
sol, and  a  fan,  the  heart  of  the  dealer  in  lands  and  grain, 
cattle  and  bank  stock,  was  yet  more  sensibly  moved.  He 
went  into  his  room,  and  dressed  himself  for  Brighton. 

When  he  came  forth  again  he  saw  Miss  Fuller  in  the  yard, 
admiring  probably  Mrs.  Johnson's  poppies,  for  they  grew 
just  along  the  fence  near  the  gate,  where  she  was  standing 
— poppies,  purple,  and  pink,  and  red,  and  white,  double 
and  fringed.  Perhaps  she  was  training  the  morning-glo- 


THE  FACT  CONTINUED.  207 

ries,  which  grew  so  fast,  and  put  forth  their  vigorous 
creepers  in  every  wayward  direction.  He  always  admired 
that  morning-glory  walk  :  year  after  year,  since  the  first 
year  they  came  to 'the  farm,  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Johnson  care- 
ful, in  season  and  out,  for  the  morning-glories ;  and  it 
seemed  she  had  succeeded  in  exciting  some  interest  in 
their  behalf  in  the  mind  of  Mercy  Fuller.  Indeed  he  had 
heard  the  teacher  say  that  she  remembered  a  porch  where  a 
shade  of  morning-glories  grew  ;  as  rich  a  purple  as  ever 
was  fashioned  into  an  emperor's  robe,  and  a  white  as  pure 
as  the  daintiest  day-lily. 

And  be,  Mr.  Carradine,  had  felt  as  grateful  to  know  that 
she  cared  for  these  homely  flowers,  as  if  some  special  en- 
dorsement had  thereby  been  set  on  Martindale,  and  Mrs. 
Johnson,  and  the  farm-house  on  the  hill. 

She  was  going  to  Brighton.  She  had  lived  in  the  world 
before  she  came  to  Martindale.  Yet  he  thought  that  it  was 
not  safe  to  let  her  go  !  He  thought  she  had  been  growing 
prettier  every  day  since  she  came  into  the  country  !  He  had 
marked  the  changes  with  pleasure  !  Secretly  had  marked 
them — yet  was  sure  that  all  must  observe  them — would  not 
have  liked  it  had  any  failed  to  observe  !  And  still,  he 
could  wish  her  plain  as  Randy  !  There  was  no  danger  in 
sending  Miranda  to  Brighton.  You  perceive  he  was  entire- 
ly a  paradox  at  present. 

But  he  went  down  to  the  fence — and  when  he  saw  that 
she  really  was  twining  the  morning-glories  around  their  sev- 
eral supports,  with  a  careful  touch  and  gentle,  he  said  : 

"  They  will  be  in  bloom,  perhaps,  by  the  time  you  get 
back,  Miss  Fuller." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  not  for  two  weeks  yet,  I  should  think.  See 
how  very  small  the  buds  are.  You  know  they  are  there 
better  than  you  can  see  them." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  he.  And  he  thought — it  was  be- 
cause the  time  seemed  so  long  to  me  the  summer  might  be 
over  for  all  I  knew.  And  somehow  he  expressed  this  feel- 
ing. 

"  How  long  shall  you  be  gone  ?" 

"  Four  days." 

"  I  was  reckoning  it  as  if  it  was  longer  than  that." 

"  Only  four  days,"  she  repeated.  But  it  was  not  dis- 
pleasing to  think  that  the  time  should  seem  long  to  him. 


208  PETER   CARRADINE. 

She  could  not  recollect  that  ever  any  one,  except  mere 
school  girls,  in  love  with  every  new  face,  had  ever  said  to 
her  that  the  time  would  seem  long  of  her  absence.  And 
this,  it  seemed  to  her,  regret  that  she  was  going,  was  in 
Mr.  Carradine's  words. 

He  did  not  leave  her  to  doubt  concerning  that. 

"  You  might  be  in  Martindale  that  length  of  time  without 
1  iy  seeing  you,  but  I  should  know  you  were  here.  It's  dif- 
ferent, you're  going  away." 

"  But  only  four  days,"  she  said,  looking  up,  and  speak- 
ing very  kindly.  She  seemed  almost  laughing  at  him.  And 
yet  he  could  endure  that  without  anger,  so  kindly  was  her 
voice. 

"  No  matter  if  it  wasn't  but  for  one  day,"  said  he  ;  "  how 
can  I  tell  what  will  happen  ?" 

"  But  you  know,"  said  she,  "  nothing  ever  happened  in  so 
short  a  time  as  that !" 

"  Something  happened,"  said  he,  seriously,  "  in  a  great 
deal  less  time.  I  was  thinking  of  when  I  first  saw  you 
down  at  the  Commissioner's.  It  did  not  take  us  long  to 
come  to  an  understanding  then,"  said  he,  "  for  we  both 
knew  what  we  wanted.  I  must  have  a  teacher,  and  you 
wanted  a  situation.  Pity  everything  cannot  be  managed  as 
easily."  Then  he  said  something  about  the  crops,  half  com- 
plaining. Whereat  Miss  Fuller,  surprised,  asked  him  if,  by 
all  accounts,  this  was  not  the  most  promising  season  farmers 
had  known  for  years. 

"  Yes,"  ho  said,  "  a  rich  harvest,  of  course.  Every  man's 
barns  will  be  full — but  what  of  it  ?" 

"A  good  deal,  I  should  think,"  she  replied,  manifestly 
amused,  yet  doubtful  about  his  mood. 

"  Does  man  live  by  bread  alone  ?" 

"  But  at  least  there  will  be  no  talk  of  ruin  this  year." 

"Why  not1?" 

"  Are  farmers  really  never  satisfied  ?  I  thought  that 
vas  a  slander." 

"  I  have  never  known  an  out-and  out  failure  any  season. 
I  never  feared  one  either.  Grumbling  gets  to  be  a  habit, 
and,  of  course,  where  so  much  depends  on  things  you 
can't  control,  as  the  winds,  and  clouds,  frosts  and  blight, 
and  insects,  a  farmer's  life  must  be  pretty  anxious.  But 


THE  FACT  CONTINUED.  209 

docs  man  live  by  bread  alone  ?      I   see  it  may  be  the  most 
disastrous  year  to  me  I've  ever  known." 

"  You  must  have  looked  for  a  great  deal." 

"  It's  clear,  Miss  Fuller,  I  never  looked  for  as  much — it 
took  me  of  a  sudden — the  great  expectation — but  I  cannot 
give  it  up — I  can't  endure  to  give  up  this,  I  don't  know 
as  you  could  call  it  a  hope — though  why  not  ?  It's  as  hard 
as  to  understand  a  woman.  And  that' s  what  I've  been  try- 
ing to  do." 

"  To  understand  a  woman,  Mr.  Carradine  !  Who  could 
believe  that  ?" 

"  Miss  Fuller,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  I  never  ransack- 
ed the  woods  for  flowers  to  present  to  a  young  lady.  I 
didn't  take  to  learning  hymns,  so  that  when  she  read  or 
sang  'em  I  could  follow  in  my  mind,  without  a  book,  and 
think  them  over  when  I  was  going  about  iny  business.  I  did 
not  know  what  a  singer  David  was  till  I  learned  it  from  a 
woman.  I  want  you  to  know  what  I  have  been  doing  and 
thinking,  ever  since  I  drove  over  to  Brown's  and  engaged 
you.  As  you  understand  what  I  meant,  when  I  was  dubious 
about  the  harvest,  there's  only  one  kind  voice  can  make  all 
it  will  bring  worth  anything  to  me.  And  you  must  say  the 
word,  Miss  Fuller." 

But  when  he  had  done  speaking,  it  seemed  to  Peter  Car- 
radine that  she  would  never  say  it.  Then  and  there  he  con- 
victed himself  of  madness,  and  of  folly  ;  of  utter  presump- 
tion. It  was  by  an  effort  that  he  prevented  himself  from 
going  off  before  he  should  hear  the  words  he  expected  to 
hear  when  she  should  speak — a  clear  refusal,  no  matter  how 
she  might  disguise  it. 

"  What  shall  I  say,  Mr.  Carradine  ?" 

He  looked  at  her,  astonished.  She  was  plainly  troubled 
— her  voice  and  her  look  showed  that  she  was.  Did  she 
really  not  understand  him  ?  At  least  she  was  willing  to 
speak  to  him  again  !  Imperious,  proud  man. — yet  where 
was  his  imperiousness,  his  pride  ?  It  was  even  as  he  had 
said,  suddenly  all  possessions  were  jeopardized  ;  suddenly 
their  value  needed  to  be  pronounced  upon,  decided,  by  a 
voice,  not  of  stock-jobber,  nor  speculator,  nor  controller  of 
the  market;  but  of  a  woman,  young  and  frail  to  look  at, 
to  whom,  however,  somehow  he  had  attached  all  his  notions 
of  steadfastness,  and  power,  and  eternity.  It  was  not  bone 


210  PETER   CARRADINE. 

and  sinew,  it  was  not  flesh  and  blood,  it  was  not  house  and 
lands,  it  was  not  crowded  barns,  but  a  subtle  spiritual  pow- 
er, independent  of  all  these  material  things,  before  which 
his  soul  surrendered.  And  "  go"  or  "  stay" — the  word 
she  spoke  must  have  his  free  obedience. 

So  he  said,  with  a  voice  new  to  him,  that  never  before, 
had  conveyed  thought  of  his  to  mortal  ear,  a  voice  in  which 
no  pride  was,  except  that  of  love,  and  no  authority,  save 
that  of  love,  a  pleading  voice,  that  was  noble  in  its  bravery  : 

"  There  is  but  one  thing  that  I  have  hoped  for  since  I 
saw  you — that  is  yourself,  Miss  Fuller.  Not  for  Martin- 
dale — though  great  would  be  the  gain — but  for  me !  Not 
for  the  good  you  can  do  this  people,  though  I  understand  it; 
but  for  my  heart's  life — that  is  what  I  mean — that  is  why  I 
ask  you.  And  it  seems  to  me,  ma'am,  as  if  the  Almighty 
had  persuaded  me  to  do  it." 

It  was  the  good  gift  he  had  more  than  once  asked,  this 
man,  at  work  in  his  fields  and  woodland,  before  sunrise  or 
at  nightfall,  or  in  the  hot  noonday  when  resting  under  some 
shady  tree — asked,  knowing  that  there  was  a  Power  presid- 
ing over  spirits,  as  well  as  over  seasons,  watchful  of  human 
hearts  as  well  as  of  sparrows  : 

"  Give  me  this  life  to  make  mine  better,  richer, 
purer  !" 

But  he  had  the  magnanimity  to  add  also  : 

"  Not  if  any  wrong  shall  thus  be  done  to  her  !  Hear  me 
not,  if  to  hear  be  to  interfere  with  some  better  portion  she 
may  have." 

And  now,  as  before  God,  he  had  asked  her,  and  would 
know  the  answer  of  Providence. 

Instead  of  replying,  after  a  moment,  Miss  Fuller  stepped 
out  of  the  morning-glory  walk  to  the  path  leading  to  the 
house  ;  she  looked  toward  it  anxiously,  as  if  the  distance 
between  her  and  it  were  interminable,  and  she  was  more 
agitated  than  Carradine  had  supposed  that  she  could  be. 
After  she  had  taken  a  step  or  two,  she  seemed  suddenly 
aware  that  he  was  not  coming  with  her  ;  then  she  turned 
and  stood  still,  looking  at  him.  But  he  also  seemed  to  be 
spell-bound,  as  if  he  could  not  move.  Or  else,  was  it  his 
pride  ?  Not  pride.  He  had  given  his  destiny  into  her 
hands.  She  must  do  as  she  would.  He  could  say  no  more. 

"  Will  you  come  ?"  said  she.     It  was  her  smile   he   fol- 


THE  FACT  CONTINUED.  211 

lowed,  not  the  words  she  spoke.  For  having  gone  thus  far 
in  hope  he  would  go  no  farther,  except  on  some  good  assur- 
ance. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  thought  of  this,"  said  she,  speaking 
kindly,  evidently  troubled. 

"Think  of  it  with  me." 

"  I  dare  not.     I  cannot." 

Carradine  had  said  to  himself  that,  if  ever  he  should 
Speak  of  this  to  Mercy,  (and  this  morning  he  had  thought 
that,  before  she  left  Martindale  in  the  fall,  perhaps  by  that 
time  he  should  be  able  !)  he  would  do  no  more  than  state 
the  wish  he  had  ;  she  should  act  according  to  her  pleasure  ; 
he  did  not  want  a  wife  whom  he  should  need  to  persuade 
against  her  will !  But  now  he  said  : 

"  Why  do  you  not  dare  ?  If  you  could  love  a  man,  you 
would  dare.  I  know — for  I — it  is  only  love  that  could  give 
courage  here.  But  my  love  for  you  must  have  made  me 
blind,  for  how  could  I  be  so  mad  as  to  think  you — could 
love  me." 

Peter  Carradine  !  thus  disloyal  to  himself  ! 

She  did  not  answer,  but  seemed  plunged  so  deep  in 
thought  as  not  rightly  to  comprehend  what  he  was  say- 
ing. 

"  But,"  said  he  again,  for  any  speech  was  better  than 
such  silence  as  this,  "  I  never  loved  any  woman  before. 
And  that  you  have  made  me  love  you,  and  carried  me  where 
I  never  supposed  I  should  go  ;  it  seems  to  me  it  is  not  pos- 
sible for  one  to  love  another  so  without — as  if  you  must 
know  what  you  have  done  to  me  !  As  if  I  must  be  some- 
thing to  you !" 

"It  is  true,"  said  she  ;  "it  is  not  possible,  Mr.  Carra- 
dine." 

The  words  came  from  her  faster  than  she  was  wont  to 
speak,  but  with  such  distinctness  that  he  lost  not  a  single 
tone.  Each  word  became  henceforth  a  sacred  possession. 
Unexpected  as  her  answer  was,  it  affected  him  no  less 
strangely  than  a  cool  dismissal  of  his  suit  had  done.  Pale 
from  his  deep  emotion,  the  strong  man  turned  his  face  full 
upon  her,  as  it  seemed,  in  solemn  wonder. 

"  Then  you  are  mine,"  said  he  ;  but  this  was  not  an  asser- 
tion, it  was  a  question,  rather. 


212  PETER   CARRADINE. 

And  even  in  asking  it  he  seemed  to  have  received  his  an- 
swer. Looking  at  her,  his  hope  was  dashed  with  the  con- 
viction not  to  be  withstood  longer,  of  an  inevitable  de- 
feat. No  mood  of  his  could  change  her  view  of  this  busi- 
ness. Otherwise  than  gently  would  she  not  deal  with 
him.  And  yet,  what  were  the  rudest  blow,  the  most 
savage  thwarting,  to  the  steadfast  kindness  of  the  look, 
the  manner  that  denied  him  ?  Thus  far  he  might  come,  no 
further,  in  approaches  to  her  life.  Here  must  his  proud 
will  be  stayed. 

There  was  something  in  her  aspect  that  produced 
more  than  the  mere  pain  of  disappointment  in  Car- 
radine.  Something  that  excited  him  as  a  difficulty  that 
must  be  met — an  opposition  that  must  be  controlled. 
After  all,  he  would  not  submit  to  her  decree  !  He  would 
enter  the  lists  against  her,  if  he  must,  and  conquer,  as  it 
were  an  adversary  ! 

A  blast  from  Johnson's  shell  summoned  them  to 
breakfast.  Mercy  heard  it,  and  it  quickened  her  an- 
swer. 

"  Your  reliable  and  responsible  ally,  Mr.  Carradine,  in 
any  good  and  necessary  work  ;  but,  don't  think  there's  any 
other  way  for  us." 

She  had  begun  to  walk  with  rapid  steps  towards  the 
house  ;  he  kept  pace  beside  her,  not  speaking  again  till 
they  came  to  the  door,  when  he  said  in  a  changed  voice,  and 
more  natural, 

"  Yes,  there  is,  Miss  Fuller,  and  I  shall  try  to  prove  it  to 
you." 

It  was  not,  he  deemed,  after  all,  one  of  those  affairs  in 
regard  to  which  proof  is  irrelevant. 

After  breakfast,  Mr.  Carradine  said  to  Johnson  that  he 
had  concluded  to  drive  to  Brighton,  and  he  would  take  Miss 
Fuller  in  the  democrat,  with  her  leave  ;  she  would  thus  get 
to  town  much  earlier,  and  so  escape  the  dust  and  confusion 
of  the  road  when  it  should  be  crowded  with  carriages  and 
people. 

Miss  Fuller,  after  a  moment  of  rather  surprised  reflec- 
tion, consented  to  be  driven  thus,  and  Johnson  went  to  har- 
ness the  sorrel.  Rather  thoughtfully  he  went  about  that 
business,  for  the  arrangement  made  a  change  in  the  domes- 


THE  FACT  CONTINUED.  213 

tic  programme  which  he  liked  not  to  communicate  to  Mrs. 
Johnson.  He  foresaw  the  talk  and  prophecies  that  would 
be  repeated  on  the  road  to  Brighton.  He  should  be  called 
upon  again  to  defend  Miss  Fuller. 


214  PETER  CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

BY      THE      WAY. 

INSTEAD  of  preparing  for  Brighton,  Miranda  went  down  to 
Elder  Green's  early  in  the  morning,  to  charge  Sally  with 
commissions.  She  supposed  it  was  her  father's  rheumatism 
that  kept  her  at  home.  Was  it  this  indeed  ?  Was  this  the 
sole  and  independent  cause  ? 

When  Senior  happened  in,  a  day  or  two  after  the  letter 
from  Mr.  Collamer,  Randy  showed  him  the  magazines  he 
had  sent  her,  and  told  him  how  it  had  happened,  and  offered 
to  lend  them  to  him,  would  he  like  to  read  ?  And  while 
he  looked  over  the  pages  carelessly,  to  please  her  rather 
himself,  for  he  was  no  reader,  he  said,  she  had  in  mind  the 
letter,  and  it  was  less  easy  to  make  mention  of  that.  At 
first  she  had  thought  that,  of  course,  he  must  know  that  a 
letter  had  come  to  her  through  the  office,  and,  for  it  was  the 
first  she  had  ever  received,  he  would  probably  be  curious 
about  it  ;  and  he  had  a  right  to  know.  But  when  she  spoke 
of  these  periodicals,  and  brought  them  to  him,  he  had  ap- 
parently no  knowledge  of  them,  asked  no  questions  that  be- 
trayed an  expectation  that  she  had  something  to  reveal. 
Perhaps,  then,  he  knew  nothing  of  the  letter.  Nevertheless, 
she  said  : 

"  He  wrote  to  me  too,  Mr.  Collamer  did  ;  he  is  settled  in 
his  church,  and  wrote  about  it.  I'll  get  the  letter  if  you'd 
like  to  see  it." 

"  Why  no,"  said  Jobson,  "I  don't  care  about  it." 

"  It  was  only  to  tell  of  a  new  place,  and  how  he  liked  it, 
and  the  people.  And  he  asked  about  Martindell.  So  I  had 
promised  I'd  let  him  know,  and  I  answered  his  letter." 

"All  right,"  said  Jobson  ;  and  he  said  it  so  heartily  that, 
if  he  had  proposed  then  and  there  to  take  Handy  to  Brigh- 


BY  THE  WAY.  215 

ton  on  "  Independence  Day,"  she  would   not  have  thought 
of  an  objection. 

But  when  that  day  came  round,  her  father  seemed  to 
stand  between  her  and  the  celebration  in  an  insurmountable 
way.  And  thus  when  Ethan  Allen  came  at  nightfall  on  the 
Third,  to  say  that  Randy  could  go  with  his  mother,  they 
were  all  going  in  the  easy  wagon,  and  her  father  seemed  in- 
clined to  have  her  go,  she  answered  that  she  would  not 
leave  him.  And  when  Senior  came  up  in  the  morning  and 
offered  to  take  her  down  to  see  the  procession,  promising 
that  she  would  not  be  gone  half  the  day  from  home,  she  was 
still  more  firmly  fixed  in  her  filial  resolution. 

The  fact  was  merely  this.  Randy  was  in  a  condition  of 
mind  which  no  manner  of  show  could  interest.  External 
things  had  no  longer  an  independent  charm  for  her.  They 
might  have  hereafter,  but  not  as  once  ;  and  she  was  passing 
through  a  stage  wherein  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  could 
never  have  again.  I  doubt,  even,  if  she  would  have  much 
rejoiced  had  the  Indian  doctor  worked  one  of  his  marvellous 
cures  on  her  father  that  day  ;  had  loosened  joints,  and  sin- 
ews, induced  in  the  old  man's  mind  the  spirit  of  '76,  and 
set  his  eyes  toward  Brighton.  Her  father  was  not  quite 
easy  in  his  mind  about  her  decision.  His  indebtedness  to 
Jobson  was  felt  by  him  in  ways  quite  new,  unknown  to  him 
in  relation  to  Carradine,  while  the  mortgage  was  in  exist- 
once.  The  thing  he  feared  had  come  upon  him.  He  was 
in  direct  communication  with  the  ungodly.  In  debt  to  a 
publican,  and  a  wine-bibber.  His  only  consolation,  when 
he  had  leisure  to  survey  the  business — and  he  had  ample 
leisure  after  its  transaction — was  derived  from  the  sugges- 
tions of  hope,  that  was  grounded  in  faith,  and  bore  fruit  in 
charity.  Possibly — indeed  how  not — this  was  a  leading  of 
the  Lord,  to  secure  Senior's  conversion.  But  he  must  be 
careful — wary — let  the  Lord  work  by  him — but  it  must 
be  the  Lord's  work.  So  he  would  have  consented  even  that 
Randy  should  ride  over  to  Brighton  ;  but  her  determination 
to  remain  at  home  waa  immoveably  fixed,  it  seemed  that  he 
might  not  interfere  therewith.  For  interference  also  might 
be  no  less  than  an  attempt  to  frustrate  the  Divine  will ! 

Randy  found  Sally  in  her  bed-room,  dressing  for  the  holi- 
day. Her  white  muslin  dress  was  spread  out  on  the  coun- 
terpane ;  on  the  pillows  lay  her  black  lace  mitts,  her  fan, 


216  PETER   CARRADINE. 

and  fine  hem-stitched  linen  handkerchief.  Sally  stood  be- 
fore the  glass,  arranging  her  hair,  with  serious  face — for 
this  was  a  serious  occupation. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  when  Miranda  came  into  the  room  in 
her  everyday  dress,  with  her  gingham  sun-bonnet  in  her 
hand,  "  what  time  are  you  going  to  town  ?" 

Randy  explained. 

"  Go  !"  urged  Sally.  "  Go  !  you  have  left  your  father  alone 
before  now." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  do  it  again,  though — for  pleasuring,  I 
mean.  You  don't  know  how  feeble  he  has  grown  this  sum- 
mer, Sally." 

"  I  don't  see  it.  He  looks  to  me  just  as  he  has  since  I  was 
four  years  old." 

"  I'd  see  it  quicker  than  any  one.  I  hope  it's  my  fears 
that  see  it — I  hope  it  isn't  true." 

"  Of  course  it's  your  own  getting  up.  And  Fourth  of 
July  don't  come  but  once  a  year,"  said  Sally,  who  had  set 
her  heart  on  dissuading  Miranda  from  this  little  sacrifice  to 
filial  love.  "  Can't  you  get  enough  of  Martindale  all  the  year 
round  1" 

"  Oh,  it  won't  seem  dull ;  besides  you'll  see  enough  for 
two,  Sally.  You  always  see  more  than  I  do.  You're 
quicker,  and  you're  brighter  every  way." 

"  I  can't  see  for  two,"  said  Sally,  in  a  vexed  tone,  and  she 
took  down  her  hair  and  began  to  dress  it  over  again.  But 
she  did  it  so  quietly,  without  any  impatience  of  gesture  or 
touch,  that  it  seemed  not  her  ill  success  that  troubled  her. 
11 1  can't  see  for  one,  even  !  You're  going  to  stay  home  to 
please  your  father — I'm  going  to  Brighton  to  please  mine  ! 
Huldah,  (yes,  I  mean  mother,  you  needn't  look  that  way, 
because  I  call  her  Huldah,)  she  insists  it  wouldn't  be  any 
Fourth  to  father  at  all  if  I  didn't  go.  So  I'm  going.  And 
I  hate  it.  I  hate  the  fuss1  and  the  noise.  Mind  that ! 
there's  different  ways  for  us  to  be  of  service.  It's  likely  I 
can't  oblige  one  without  offending  another.  I  can't  see  for 
you,  and  you  can't  see  for  me.  I  can't  see  things  as  father 
does.  I  wish  I  was  in  Jericho  !  How  do  you  like  my 
dress  ?" 

"  It's  a  pretty  dress,"  said  Randy,  who  had  been  stand, 
ing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  admiring  the  pretty  embroidered 
trimming  of  the  loose  sleeves  and  the  waist. 


BY  THE  WAY.  217 

"  I  never  wore  it  but  once — and  I'll  never  wear  it  again. 
But  to-day  it  is  so  warm,  and  I'm  tired  of  everything 
else." 

"  I  like  a  white  dress,  but  it  don't  agree  with  me ;  though 
I  never  tried  it,  to  be  sure.  There's  two  things  I  was  go- 
ing to  ask  you  to  do  for  me  in  Brighton,"  said  Handy, 
helping  Sally  to  put  on  her  dress. 

"  I  shall — I — what  is  it  ?"  asked  Sally,  blushing  scarlet — 
she  had  nearly  declined  the  service,  thinking  that  this  was 
no  day  for  doing  errands  ;  she  had  one  great  and  absorbing 
service  to  perform  ;  it  was  enough. 

"  I  want  you  tell  me  all  you  do  and  see,  for  one  thing — " 
she  hesitated.  Sally  said  : 

"  I  told  you  I  couldn't  see  for  you,  but  I'll  try.  We 
shan't  do  anything  but  walk  about,  and  roast  ourselves,  and 
sit  in  the  church,  like  owls,  listening  to  the  oration.  That 
was  a  pretty  performance  in  the  school-house  yesterday, 
wasn't  it  ?  Getting  a  woman  to  read  the  Declaration  of  In- 
dependence !  What  would  they  do  if  we  acted  on  it  for  our- 
selves, we  women  ?  What's  the  other  thing  you  want  ?" 

"  I  want  two  copy-books,  and  half-a-dozen  sheets  of  white 
letter  paper — ruled,  you  know.  And  some  good  pens. 
Here's  the  money."  She  laid  half  a  dollar  on  the  table, 
wrapped  in  a  bit  of  paper. 

"  Two  copy-books,  a  dozen  sheets — " 

"  No,  half-a-dozen." 

"  White  and  ruled — pens.  I'll  remember.  Keep  your 
money.  I'll  make  you  a  Fourth  of  July  present." 

"  I  laid  the  fifty  cents  aside  for  it — so  take  the  money ;  I 
had  rather  you  would.  I  saved  it  on  purpose." 

"  That's  nothing  ;  keep  it  for  next  time.  But  who's  to 
have  the  letters  ?  Collamer  ?  I'll  give  you  this  white 
dress  to  be  married  in.  Own  up." 

"  Maybe  for  no  letters  at  all,"  answered  Randy,  looking 
out  of  the  window ;  then  she  said  in  a  changed  voice  : 
"  you  mustn't  talk  so  about  Mr.  Collamer  and  me.  It  makes 
me  feel  ashamed.  It  isn't  right  on  any  of  us.  He 
doesn't  care  for  me  any  more  than  he  does  for  that  looking- 
glass;  and  as  for  me,  I'd  be  a  fool  to  think  of  such  a  thing. 
I've  got  others  to  think  of.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  ;  it 
made  me  sick  to  think  of  it  when  you  said  I  was  dead  in 
love  with  him." 

10 


218  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"  Well,  well ;  no  matter  how  you  take  things.  You 
needn't  marry  him  ;  I  won't  make  you.  But  I  think  it  is 
written."  Sally's  eyes  were  fixed  on  Randy  as  she  spoke  ; 
she  smiled,  but  her  look  was  abstracted  and  sad.  "  You 
think  I'm  cross.  I'm  not.  But  my  head  aches.  If  I  should 
get  my  neck  broken  to-day — or  be  blown  up  by  the  cannon, 
so  that  I  could  never  speak  to  you  again,  you  may  know  I 
haven't  laid  up  anything  against  you." 

"  Sally  !  Sally  !  come,  come.  Your  father  is  waiting  !" 
called  Huldah  from  the  first  landing  on  the  stairs.  Sally 
seemed  to  hear  with  a  dismay  that  her  unreadiness  did  not 
account  for.  For  she  was  never  ready  at  the  appointed 
moment,  and  usually  it  was  a  matter  of  very  slight  concern- 
ment that  she  should  keep  others  waiting.  For  a  moment  she 
stood  motionless  ;  then  she  said  : 

"  Help  me — here  are  the  big  pins.  Fasten  on  the  ribbons 
so  they  will  stay  in  their  places.  If  there's  anything  I  hate 
it's  falling  to  pieces  all  day,  after  you're  dressed.  Town 
folks  to  stare  and  laugh.  That's  one  thing  I  hate  to  go  to 
Brighton  for,  town  folks  are  so  impertinent.  They  spend 
all  they  have  on  their  backs  ;  and  they've  got  the  notion  that 
a  hut  in  town  is  better  than  a  palace  in  the  country  !  (not  to 
be  wondered  at  either.)  There — that  will  do.  You're 
handy.  How  I  tremble.  No — it's  the  blue  shawl  I'm  go- 
ing to  wear.  The  net  one.  Will  it  do  ?  I  won't  forget 
your  paper  and  the  rest.  There — thank  the  Lord  !  I'm 
ready." 

So  she  took  one  last  look  in  the  glass,  and  saw  that  she 
was  Sally  Green,  and  hurried  down  the  stairs.  Randy  fol- 
lowed. 

Elder  Green,  his  mother  and  his  wife,  were  already  in 
the  carriage  ;  and  the  doors  and  the  windows  of  the  house 
were  fastened,  except  that  through  which  the  girls  now 
passed. 

"  Lock  the  door  and  bring  the  key,"  cried  the  Elder,  but 
Sally  walked  on,  leaving  Randy  to  perform  that  service. 
When  she  gave  him  the  key  he  complimented  her. 

"  That's  you  for  a  safe  hand.  Here's  my  girl !  Nobody 
ever  expects  anything  of  her,  for  all  her  bringing  up."  But 
as  he  leaned  forward  to  his  daughter,  and  helped  her  to  the 
seat  beside  him,  it  was  a  smile  of  genuine  pride  that  met 
her  gaze.  He  knew  to  a  certainty  that  not  a  girl  in  Brigh- 


BY  THE  WAY.  219 

ton  could  compare  with  Sally.     But  she  stung  him  after  her 
own  style. 

"  If  you  don't  expect  anything,  father,  I'll  try  to  not  dis- 
appoint you." 

He  smiled  again  ;  it  is  said  that  there  is  a  certain  degree 
of  pleasure  communicated  by  every  kind  of  pain.  A  little 
short  of  knowledge — fire  and  ice  are  one,  in  the  sensations 
they  occasion. 

Thus  they  set  out,  smiling  and  bowing  at  Randy,  who 
went  home  with  the  half  dollar  in  her  palm,  finding  it  diffi- 
cult to  deem  her  friend  unkind,  ungenerous. 

"  There  !"  exclaimed  Sally,  when  the  horses  were  trotting 
through  their  first  quarter  of  a  mile. 

Her  father  looked  up,  startled,  as  though  about  to  rein 
in  the  steeds,  but  she  said  "  Nothing !"  and  laughed  at  his 
fright. 

"  You  haven't  forgot  your  ribbons,"  said  Esther,  the  grand 
mother,  "  that  is  certain." 

"  Here's  a  pin,  Sally.  You  had  best  fasten  the  handker 
cher  to  your  waist.  You'll  lose  it,  maybe,  getting  out  and 
in,"  said  her  mother. 

"  Is  it  the  hem-stitched  one  ?"  asked  the  Elder. 

"  Oh,  I'll  take  care.  Yes  ;  it's  the  hem-stitch,"  she  an- 
swered, not  very  patiently.  They  were  all  too  attentive,  too 
thoughtful  of  her.  "  Father,  let  me  drive." 

"  No,  no,''  cried  Esther,  "  not  on  Independence  day — I 
won't  be  drove  to  destruction.  What  is  the  creetur  think- 
ing of — with  every  team  in  the  country  on  the  roa'd  !  Elder, 
I'm  too  old  to  be  throwed.  At  my  time  of  life  to  be  bed- 
rid !" 

"  Grandma,  I'm  not  driving,"  said  Sally,  harshly  rebuking 
the  old  body's  fears. 

"  But,  you  foolish  creetur,  don't  I  know  you  couldn't  ask 
for  the  moon,  but  your  father  would  set  to  thinking  if  he 
couldn't  get  a  line  long  enough  to  draw  her  in  1" 

"  There's  many  a  thing  I  might  ask  for  long  enough  be- 
fore I'd  get  it,"  answered  Sally.  <;  You  are  so  suspicious.'' 

"  I. couldn't  have  brought  up  a  boy  so  and  lived  in  the 
house  with  him,"  said  the  Elder,  and  he  never  would' 
have  said  this,  for  he  did  not  exactly  think  it,  had  not  his 
daughter's  mood  made  him  a  little  uncomfortable.  He  was 
sensitive  to  all  her  moods  and  changes,  and  to-day  he  stood  for 


220  PETER  CAERADINE. 

peace  ;  he  would  fain  ensue  it.  He  thought  the  acknowl- 
edgment would  make  Sally  more  quiet  and  kind. 

"  What  would  you  have  done  with  a  boy  ?"  asked  Huldah  ; 
she  asked  because  she  thought  that  the  Elder  had  something 
on  his  mind  he  would  like  to  express. 

"  Made  a  man  of  him  !"  he  answered,  so  promptly  as  to 
prove  that  she  was  right  in  her  suspicion.  "  Men  under- 
stand they  can't  have  their  own  way  always — they  have  to 
give  up.  But  girls — it's  coaxing  they  must  have.  It.'s 
never  do  this,  and  she  doeth  it.  Girls  are  girls,  and  boys 
are  boys." 

"And  a  long,  easy  rein  is  bad  for  one  as  'tother,"  said 
Esther  Green. 

A  remark  that  was  lost  on  Sally,  for  she  was  thinking 
again  of  that  which  had  caused  the  sudden  start  and  exclama- 
tion five  minutes  ago.  How  that  it  had  been  her  purpose  and 
intention  to  pray  for  direction,  when  she  had  dressed  herself, 
before  she  left  her  chamber.  For  guidance,  that  day  !  But 
Miranda  had  come  and  hindered  her — and  here  she  was,  to 
go  her  own  ways — to  take  counsel  of  herself,  and  to  keep 
secret  her  counsel ;  limiting  the  Almighty.  And  this  was 
Independence  Day. 

As  they  approached  the  town,  the  inmates  of  this,  and,  I 
suppose,  of  every  other  carriage  coming  in  from  north,  south, 
east,  and  west,  gradually  were  drawn  out  to  forget  them- 
selves, and  the  familiar  life  they  had  left  behind  them,  in 
view  of  the  strangeness  of  scene  and  of  face  in  this  broad 
field  of  conjecture  and  observation. 

Brighton  was  alive  with  dust  and  noise,  with  policemen, 
military  companies,  bands  of  musicians,  fire-crackers,  and 
spectators.  At  sunrise  the  roar  and  the  rush  began  ;  and  it 
had  waxed  in  volume  and  in  swiftness  ever  since.  Every- 
body understood  that  this  was  to  be  the  greatest  celebration 
Brighton  had  attempted  in  years,  and  everybody  came  to  see 
if  this  was  true. 

Elder  Green  got  rid  of  his  horses  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
on  the  crowded  steps  of  the  inn  where  his  grays  were  al- 
ways sure  of  the  best  treatment,  Sarah  saw  Oliver  Savage 
"  standing. 

The  whole  family  recognized  him  at  once,  and  Elder 
Green,  who  was  in  some  perplexity  as  to  what  he  should  do 
with  his  women  while  he  went  to  see  to  his  horses,  relieved 


BY    THE   WAY.  221 

at  the  sight  of  a  familiar  face,  beckoned  to  Oliver,  who  at 
once  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  stood,  all  respect 
and  deference,  hy  the  Elder's  carriage  door. 

Would  Oliver  just  stay  with  the  Elder's  folks  ten  min- 
utes ? 

The  young  man  hardly  answered  in  words,  hut  opening 
the  carriage  door,  helped  the  ladies  to  alight,  and  Sarah 
last.  Happy  they  were  to  he  conducted  hy  such  skill  as  his 
through  the  crowd  into  the  hack  room  of  the  little  inn,  at 
whose  window  he  stationed  himself,  that  he  might  accost 
the  Elder  when  he  should  go  up  the  lane,  and  let  him  know 
where  the  women  had  found  shelter. 


222  PETER  CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

THE      FACT       CONCLUDED. 

THE  Elder's  mother  might  now  adjust  her  shawl  and  bon- 
net, and  the  Elder's  wife  her  cap  stringf ; — as  for  Sally,  she 
sat  down  silent  on  the  hard  old  threadbare  sofa,  having  ta- 
ken a  mere  glance  at  herself  in  the  glass.  A  disdainful 
glance  it  seemed,  as  if  it  were  not  of  the  slightest  conse- 
quence what  figure  she  made  ;  and  this  feeling  had  per- 
versely stirred,  because  she  caught  the  admiring  glance  of 
Oliver  at  the  moment  that  she  turned  her  eyes  toward  the 
glass. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  look  at  yourself  !  Are  you  all 
right  ?"  asked  her  grandmother,  whose  earthly  pride  was 
centred  in  Sally  Green's  good  looks. 

"  Not  through  that  lace  and  'sparagrass,"  answered  Sally. 

"  Well,  you're  all  right,"  said  the  old  lady,  who  seemed  to 
be  on  the  point  of  appealing  to  Oliver  Savage  if  it  were  not 
so.  Such  purpose,  if  such  she  had,  was  frustrated,  and  her- 
self startled,  by  Oliver's  voice  shouting  to  the  Elder,  who 
had  passed  by  him  unobserved — so  he  leaped  through  the 
window,  and  ran  after  him  ;  and,  it  seemed  hardly  a  moment 
after,  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  room,  following  the  Elder. 

"  Come,"  said  that  good  man.  "  Are  you  all  ready,  my 
girls  ?"  then  he  laughed,  for  the  spirit  of  the  day  had  al- 
ready inspired  him. 

They  came,  one  after  another,  to  the  door,  and,  for  the 
first  time,  the  Elder  seemed  to  be  at  a  loss.  Then  he  said, 
with  generous  trust,  "  Mother,  you  take  my  right  arm. 
Wife,  you  take  my  left.  Oliver,  bring  on  Sally." 

This  arrangement,  fulfilling,  as  it  did,  the  expectation  of 
the  young  people,  seemed  to  impress  them.  Oliver's  eye 


THE   FACT   CONCLUDED.  223 

shone  triumphant.  Sally  looked  more  grave ;  but  she 
seemed  to  see  something  of  moment  in  this  prophecy  ful- 
filled, as  if  it  were  even  a  providence  ! 

Huldah  appeared  disposed  to  revise  the  arrangement.  To 
say  that  she  would  walk  with  Sally,  and  not  trouble  Oliver  ; 
or  that  she  would  walk  with  Oliver,  and  leave  the  Elder  to 
look  after  his  mother,  he  would  find  the  steps  of  one  as  much 
as  he  could  direct ;  but  a  glance  around  the  company  made 
her  restrain  these  words.  She  could  not  be  for  ever  inter- 
fering, disconcerting  and  displeasing  everybody.  And  so 
they  walked  down  the  street  according  to  the  Elder's  in- 
junction ;  careful,  at  first,  that  no  other  foot  passengers 
should  break  up  their  party — the  younger  following  closely 
in  the  footsteps  of  the  Elder  But  as  soon  as  they  were 
fairly  mixed  in  with  the  crowd,  Oliver  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  little  package,  and  gave  it  to  Sally,  without  speaking. 

"  What's  that  ?"  said  she. 

"  The  bride's  gloves,"  he  answered.  "  And  I  have  the 
ring  in  my  pocket.  A  pretty  gold  ring  to  put  on  the  finger 
of  my  wife." 

"  A  good  many  days  from  now,"  said  she. 

"  Oh  !  you  haven't  changed  your  mind.  When  I  saw  you 
in  the  carriage,  with  the  white  dress  on,  I  knew  what  I  knew 
before,  that  Sally  Green  could  never  break  her  promise. 
And  if  you  were  dressed  a  hundred  times  for  it,  you  couldn't 
look  so  pretty." 

"  But  you  look  like  a  bridegroom,  don't  you,  Oliver  ?"  she 
asked,  curtly,  surveying  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  a 
glance  so  swift  and  sharp  it  scathed  him. 

"  Not  if  you  are  ashamed  of  me,"  said  he,  firing  up 
"  On  no  account.  I  made  myself  decent,  I  thought.  I  said 
to  myself,  she  will  expect  that.*' 

"  So  you  have,"  said  she,  relenting  a  little.  "  Give  me 
the  gloves.  We  won't  quarrel  here  in  the  street." 

"  I  went  down,"  he  said,  speaking  with  delight.  "  I 
found  the  minister — and  he  don't  know  you  nor  me  ;  so 
there  won't  be  no  difficulty.  He  said  he  should  have  his 
hands  full  to-day,  and  the  earlier  we  come  the  better." 

Then  said  Sally,  as  if  once  for  till — in  a  determined  voice, 
yet  it  was  a  woman's  voice — "  Now  hear  me,  Oliver.  I  said 
I  would  marry  you  to-day.  And  I  mean  to  stand  by  my 
promise.  But  when  we  find  father  and  mother  again,  not  a 


224  PETER   CARRADINE. 

word  !  Things  shall  be  as  they  are  till  autumn.  I've  been 
thinking  it  over  on  the  way  down  here.  You're  not  to 
speak  a  word  till  I  make  the  sign — but  go  on  as  you  have. 
Only  better,  I  hope.  And  try  and  make  father  like  you." 

But  he  swore  that  she  was  too  hard,  and  she  shouldn't 
make  all  the  bargain. 

Then  she  answered,  "  Very  well.  Let's  hurry  on  and 
overtake  them.  And  here  are  your  gloves.  Keep  them  till 
I  ask  for  them — but  if  you  find  another  girl  you  can  talk 
over  to  believe  in  you — such  a  fool  as  I  am — " 

"  Now,  Sally,  hush.  Have  your  way.  Here  is  the  min- 
ister's house.  They  are  hurrying  on  to  get  down  to  the 
Square.  If  we  are  quick  about  it,  we  shall  join  them  in  ten 
minutes." 

It  was  at  last  the  possibility  of  such  expedition  that 
seemed  to  decide  the  question  !  A  gentleman  in  threadbare 
black  suit  just  then  opened  the  door,  and  while  she,  in  her 
mind,  was  still  hesitating,  Oliver  said  : 

"  Here  we  are,  sir  !"  and  they  stood  in  the  passage,  and 
Oliver  had  closed  the  door  behind  them  in  an  instant.  The 
minister  seemed  to  understand  the  circumstances.  He  led 
them  at  once  into  a  little  room  that  looked  like  an  office, 
where  sat  a  young  person  writing  in  a  book.  On  the  en- 
trance of  the  party,  he  took  out  from  the  drawer  of  the  table 
a  narrow  strip  of  paper,  on  which  various  devices  were  en- 
graved, and  drawing  an  inkstand  towards  him,  dipped  the 
pen  lying  thereon  in  the  ink,  and  wrote  with  a  flourish  at  the 
left  corner  of  the  paper, — it  was  a  marriage  certificate  he 
had  thus  signed.  When  he  had  done  this,  he  looked  for 
the  first  time  with  deliberation  at  the  young  persons  before 
whom  stood  the  minister.  He  saw  what  did  not  seem  to 
greatly  interest  him — a  respectable  looking  young  fellow, 
and  a  pretty,  well  dressed  girl. 

When  the  minister  addressed  the  man  he  arose,  and  stood 
through  the  ceremony — it  was  not  three  minutes  long. 
Then,  for  they  had  none  of  their  time  to  lose,  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  signed  their  names  to  the  certificate,  and  Sally 
took  off  her  white  gloves — ^Oliver  put  the  ring  upon  her  fin- 
ger— she  drew  on  her  black  mits  again,  and  they  left  the 
house.  Hardly  a  word  except  those  needful  in  the  progress 
of  the  ceremony  had  broken  the  silence  of  the  room.  Within 


THE    FACT    CONCLUDED.  225 

how  still !  Without,  in  the  thronged  street,  what  laughter, 
and  fun,  and  noise,  and  strife  ! 

They  had  been  within  that  house's  door  just  seven  min- 
utes, as  the  town  clock  in  the  tower  opposite  informed  them 
when  they  emerged  into  the  street,  and  joined  in  the  throng 
that  was  passing  towards  the  Square. 

"  Now,"  said  Sally,  "  I've  done  it !  don't  forget  your  pro- 
mises. We  shall  have  a  good  day  to-day." 

Oliver  drew  her  arm  within  his  without  speaking,  and 
they  hurried  on.  Then  she  lifted  up  her  left  hand  and 
looked  at  the  ring. 

"  If  you  didn't  know  what  this  meant,  should  you  notice 
it  ?"  asked  she. 

"Should/?" 

"  Would  anybody,  do  you  think1?" 

"  We  shall  see,"  he  answered.  He  rather  thought  that 
"  anybody"  would  ;  but  he  chose  to  let  things  take  their 
own  course  now.  He  was,  for  his  part,  satisfied  with  what 
had  been  done.  How  proud  he  felt  as  he  walked  arm  in 
arm  with  Sally.  It  were  worth  while  to  scan  that  poor  triv- 
ial human  pride  of  his — so  cheap  and  so  common  ;  the  pride 
that  sets  up  one  man,  and  sets  another  to  creeping  and 
cringing  through  the  world — that  world  which  would  make 
better  natures  than  ours  blush,  if  they  could  by  any  means 
comprehend  its  vacuity  and  folly.  He  was  thinking,  as  he 
walked  with  Sally  down  the  street,  that  now  he  was  Elder 
Green's  son-in-law, — and  a  rich  man.  He  would  like  to  see 
any  man  attempt  to  put  him  down  !  He  was  not  in  the  least 
the  same  person  that  he  was  an  hour  ago  !  He  would  be 
one  of  the  rich  men  of  Martindale  at  last! — should  have  his 
horses,  and  his  carriage,  and  there  would  be  different  living 
in  the  old  brown  farm-house  when  he  and  Sally  took  the 
place  of  Elder  Green  !  The  poor  wretch  was  congratulating 
himself  on  the  fine  clothes  he  would  have,  the  feasting,  the 
ease,  the  authority,  and  had  no  higher  thought  of  the  part 
he  had  taken  this  day,  and  of  his  part  in  life  henceforth, 
than  thousands  just  like  him  have.  Anything  that  could 
have  dignified  the  transaction  recorded  was  far  removed 
from  it. 

They  were  longer  than  they,  had  hoped  in  regaining  their 
party,  and  both  were  struck,  and  both  laughed  when  they 
came  in  sight  of  Elder  and  Huldah  Green,  and  the  Elder's 

10* 


226  PETER   CARRADINE. 

mother,  their  faces  looked  so  anxious  and  so  troubled. 
Old  Esther  was  was  quite  pale  with  the  excitement  of  her 
walk,  and  this  crowning  disturbance. 

But  the  young  people  took  it  easily  when,  with  one  voice 
they  were  interrogated, 

"  Where  liave  you  been  ?" 

Sally  explained  how  they  had  got  separated,  it  was  easily 
done — and  then  they  had  seen  a  blind  man  with  bagpipes, 
led  by  a  boy  who  imitated  the  singing  of  birds,  and  they 
stopped  to  listen  ;  all  which  was  true,  and  found  credence, 
for  Esther  said  that  she  was  of  a  mind  herself  to  stop,  only 
the  Elder  wouldn't  hear  to  anything  until  they  got  down  to 
the  Square.  He  wanted  to  see  the  procession  form,  and 
then  he  promised  they  would  go  and  hunt  up  all  the  sights. 

So  they  all  stood  together  now  on  the  steps  of  the  Court 
House,  and  watched  the  preparations,  and  Oliver  won  a 
thankful  smile  for  himself  by  getting  a  chair  for  Esther  ;  a 
fact  which  excited  as  much  notice  and  surprise  as  if  he  were 
a  magician,  and  had  made  it  to  order.  He  might  be  an  ut- 
terly worthless  fellow,  selfish,  foolish,  vain,  but  that  did  not 
hinder  his  making  himself  very  agreeable  at  such  a  time. 
He  was  observing,  and  his  eyes  never  rested  for  a  second — 
there  was  little  that  escaped  them,  and  he  made  spectacles 
of  himself  for  Esther  ;  and  ears  of  himself  for  the  Elder, 
who  was  anxious  to  know  every  order  that  issued  through 
the  Marshal's  trumpet. 

When  the  procession  began  to  move,  the  crowds  along  the 
sidewalk  also  set  in  motion,  and  the  Elder's  family,  attended 
by  Oliver,  followed  with  the  rest,  in  that  wandering  which 
did  not  really  terminate  until  they  were  all  fairly  stowed 
away  in  their  carriages,  and  the  horses'  heads  turned  home- 
ward. 

Oliver  grew  bold  in  the  latter  part  of  the  day  to  ask  the 
Elder  if  he  might  drive  Sally  home  by  moonlight,  after  the 
fireworks — a  request  the  father  had  not  to  deny,  for  it  met 
with  Sally's  instant  refusal.  And  to  hear  her  speaking  out 
so  promptly  set  all  their  hearts  at  ease,  for  after  the  service 
he  had  really  rendered  them  was  over,  they  had  all  of  them 
misgivings  whether  such  a  day  might  not  have  been  bought 
at  a  dear  rate,  if  it  seemed  to  encourage  Oliver's  preten- 
sions in  his  own  mind,  or  in  Sally's. 


THE    FACT   CONCLUDED.  227 

Her  prompt  refusal  to  remain  set  all  their  hearts  at  rest, 
and  they  went  home  agreeing  that  never  was  such  a  Fourth. 

But  when  Oliver  helped  Sally  into  the  carriage  he  did  not 
see  the  ring  on  the  fourth  finger  of  her  left  hand,  and  it 
was  enough  to  trouble  him  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening. 
Though  he  said  to  himself,  of  course  she  must  have  worn  it, 
only  it  was  hidden  by  the  black  lace  mit. 

How  many  minds,  I  wonder,  of  all  who  celebrate  "  Inde- 
pendence," remained,  from  morning  until  night,  untroubled 
by  personal  concerns,  and  the  affairs  of  their  neighbors  1 

Mrs.  Johnson  said  to  her  husband,  on  the  way  to  town  in 
the  morning  :  "  It  may  look  fair  to  her,  but  who  would 
ever  a  thought  she  would  have  need  of  a  warning  !" 

"  I  don't  see  it  so,"  said  Johnson.  "  She  was  going  to 
Brighton,  and  so  was  he,  of  course.  I  never  knew  him  to 
lose  a  Fourth.  I  knew  he  would  have  out  Sorrel,  just  as 
well  before  he  said  it  as  I  did  after.  And  of  course  he 
would  like  to  have  a  pretty  young  woman  alongside.  Who 
wouldn't  ?" 

Mrs.  Johnson  looked  as  though  she  considered  her  hus- 
band's obtuseness  contemptible,  but  she  said  nothing  of  the 
sort.  She  tried  to  be  as  patient  and  forbearing,  now  that 
they  stood  on  a  Christian  equality,  as  she  had  been  in  days 
when  she  prayed  as  for  life  for  his  conversion.  "  He  is 
fond  of  her,"  said  she.  "  And  it  may  look  fair  to  her.  But 
till  we  got  used  to  Mr.  Carradine's  ways  he  was  a  dreadful 
hand  to  deal  with.  And  he  is  not  after  her  kind." 

"  He  is  not  the  same  man  he  was,  though,  when  we  first 
came  to  Martindell,"  Johnson  allowed.  "  And  I  think  it's 
you  that  did  it." 

"  I  want  to  see  the  end  of  it,"  said  she,  not  indifferent  to 
his  appreciating  praise,  though  she  had  habitually  regarded 
it  as  her  right — especially  at  times  when  it  had  been  with- 
held. 

"  But  you  wouldn't  want  what  you  expect  to  come  true  ?" 
said  Johnson,  forbearing  to  look  at  his  wife  even  when  she 
did  not  answer.  Then  he  continued  : 

"  I  don't  think  it  will.  He  is  an  impossible  man  to  drive 
— but  you  know  that  them  that  understands  know  how  easy 
'tis  to  lead  him.  That's  what  she  will  do." 

"  But  she  must  be  a  deep  one  !  How  should  she  know 
the  way  T' 


228  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"  Because  they  was  meant  for  each  other,"  answered 
Johnson. 

"  Oh,  you  !  how  can  you  tell  that  ?"  returned  hig  wife,  in 
spite  of  herself  constantly  betraying  her  vexation. 

"  Wife  !  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Mind  the  horses.  Do  you  suppose  that  she  really  cares 
one  pea  straw  for — him  ?" 

"  Yes'm." 

"  The  last  woman  !  He  might  as  well  be  tackled  to  a  wax 
doll." 

"  Why  don't  she  take  an  interest  in  the  stock,  as  woman- 
kind don't  often,  not  in  general.  When  she  made  them  pic- 
turs  of  Ajax,  as  she  calls  'em,  and  the  big  horse,  and  drawed 
them  flocks  o'  sheep  for  Harry,  could  she  done  it  if  she 
didn't  see  their  purty  pints  ?  That's  what  he  likes.  He 
likes  to  hear  her  praise  'em,  better  than  cattle  dealers,  or 
them  that  comes  for  trade.  I  know  him.  As  if  for  all  the 
world  she  was  brung  up  among  'em." 

"  No  better  for  a  farmer's  wife  than  a  wax  doll,"  replied 
she. 

"  He  don't  want  a  wife  for  a  hard-working  woman — don't 
ye  see  it  ?  I've  seen  him  fixing  his  eyes  to  her  white  slim 
hands,  as  if  they  was  a  lily.  Didn't  he  say  once  he  didn't 
want  a  wife  for  a  drudge  when  somebody  was  recommended?" 

"  The  first  man  of  that  way  of  thinking,  then,"  returned 
Mrs.  Johnson.  But  she  seemed  at  once  to  repent  the  words, 
for  she  dropped  the  extraordinary  and  most  hateful  subject, 
and  allowed  herself  to  be  taken  up  by  the  sights  and  sounds 
among  which  they  were  passing.  And  Johnson,  assured  by 
repeated  words  and  looks  that  she  was  herself  again,  began 
to  look  about  him  with  a  brightened  face,  and  to  breathe 
more  easily. 


As  Oliver  Savage  fancied,  and  yet  could  not  believe,  Sa- 
rah had  not  on  the  ring  when  she  rode  home.  She  had  ta- 
ken it  off  and  pinned  it  inside  her  belt,  determined  that  as 
yet  no  suspicions  of  what  she  had  done  should  be  excited  in 
any  person's  mind.  This  was  the  reason  of  the  act  as  ac- 
knowledged to  herself.  But  it  was  not  really  the  reason. 
Had  she,  without  suspicion,  loved  the  man,  she  had  the  mea- 


THE   FACT   CONCLUDED.  229 

sure,  and  that  quality  of  self-will,  that  would  have  led  her  to 
make  no  concealment  of  the  marriage.  No  fear  of  conse- 
quences would  have  constrained  her  to  secrecy. 

Perhaps  she  feared  still  less  the  scrutiny  to  which  she 
might  be  subject  at  home,  than  that  of  Miranda.  Nothing 
ever  escaped  Ilandy's  eyes — it  seemed  to  Sally  that  her  se- 
cret would  betray  itself  to  her  when  they  should  meet.  But 
before  she  could  carry  up  the  package  of  paper,  etc.,  she 
must  go  home.  She  must  take  off  this  dress,  no  longer 
white  and  pure.  This  bridal  dress,  which  she  meant  to 
wear  no  more.  Then  she  must  help  about  preparing  supper 
— they  were  all  so  tired.  Perhaps  it  would  be  too  late  to 
go  to-night  in  search  of  Randy. 

"  We  shall  have  rain  before  we  get  home,"  said  her  fa- 
ther. From  the  darkling  sky  he  looked  at  the  girl  by  his 
side  ;  how  could  she  be  screened  and  defended  ?  That  was 
the  question  that  disturbed  him.  Wasn't  there  room  for 
Sally  behind  there  ? 

But  she  laughed,  and  her  lightest  laugh  thrilled  him  al- 
ways. 

"  Then  we  shall  get  all  the  Brighton  dust  washed  off  be- 
fore we  come  to  Martindell — that's  good — drive  slower,  fa- 
ther, please."  Her  satisfaction  when  the  rain  came  driving 
down  upon  them  was  not  shared  by  the  rest  of  the  party — 
and  when  they  came  to  the  shelter  of  the  shed,  her  laughter 
was  incomprehensible,  as  she  pointed  to  her  dripping  and 
ruined  bonnet-strings,  and  looked  down  on  her  torn,  tum- 
bled, soiled  white  dress. 

But  when  she  ran  into  the  house,  and  then  up  to  her 
chamber,  and  threw  off  this  holiday  gear,  she  could  no- 
where find  her  wedding  ring. 


230  PETER  CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


ME.      CARKADINE    CONSULTS    WITH    MK8. 
JOHNSON . 

MR.  CARRADINE  came  back  from  Brighton  alone  in  his 
democrat,  for  Miss  Fuller  was  to  remain  with  her  friends 
until  Monday  morning. 

He  had  driven  her  down  as  rapidly  as  he  promised  ; 
there  was  not  much  such  driving,  even  that  day,  on  the  road 
to  Brighton  ;  and  there  was  no  recurrence  to  the  morning 
topic.  The  success  of  the  celebration  in  Martindale,  the  de- 
light of  the  old  "  relict"  in  the  school  exercises,  the  pros- 
pects of  the  Brighton  turn  out,  the  state  and  quality  of  the 
crops  on  the  farm  lands  they  passed,  such  matters  sufficed 
for  the  moments  of  the  drive.  Mr.  Carradine  had  really 
cause  to  congratulate  himself  on  the  dignity  with  which  he 
had  deported  himself.  He  did  no  such  thing. 

One  might  have  supposed  that  of  all  days  in  the  year  du- 
ties urged  upon  him  most  imperatively  that  day,  from  the 
haste  with  which,  declining  the  Commissioner's  proffered 
hospitalities,  he  drove  from  his  door  and  through  the  town ; 
but  not  towards  Martindale. 

In  the  vicinity  of  Brighton  were  many  handsome  residen- 
ces of  "  gentlemen-farmers,"  as  they  were  called,  and  these 
were  in  the  mind  of  Carradine.  He  had  acquaintance  with 
the  proprietors  of  several  of  these  places,  and  his  purpose 
was  the  same  to-day  that  it  was  a  month  ago  ;  if  any  change 
had  taken  place  in  it,  is  was  merely  the  change  by  which  a 
plan  remotely  possible,  became  immediately  imperative. 

He  slackened  the  reins  when  Sorrel  had  brought  him  to 
the  southern  borders  of  the  town,  and  drove  more  quietly 
through  the  suburbs  of  Brighton,  for  he  was  hesitating  as  to 


MR.   CARRADINE   CONSULTS   MRS.  JOHNSON.  .231 

which  road  he  should. take  ;  on  his  choice  depended  the 
style  of  mansion  he  should  visit.  His  hesitation  seemed  to 
be  decided  by  the  troops  of  country  people  thronging  into 
town.  He  took  the  quietest  road,  and  went  to  enquire  con- 
cerning Hooper's  stock. 

As  he  drove  along  the  carriage  road  through  the  hand- 
some grounds,  his  eyes  seemed  to  have  acquired  some  new 
nerve  and  power.  All  the  way  he  was  enquiring  diligently 
what  it  was  that  made  this  place  so  charming  to  the  eyes  of 
Miss  Fuller.  For,  he  now  remembered,  and  the  recollection 
startled  him,  as  in  it  were  the  most  wonderful  coincidence, 
if  indeed  he  might  not  call  it  providential,  he  remembered 
how  Mercy  had  spoken,  with  eloquent  gratitude  even,  of  the 
charming  effect  produced  by  the  tasteful  arrangement  and 
decoration  of  the  grounds  about  the  Hooper  mansion,  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  ever  seen  them. 

He  had  seen  them — yes — but  surely  never  as  now.  Nev- 
er had  he  seen  mere  grass  and  flowers,  mere  trees  and  gra- 
vel walks,  under  an  atmosphere  so  glorifying  as  glowed  over 
slope  and  dwelling  on  this  sultry  July  day.  And  one  might 
fearlessly  have  certified  to  the  man' s  admiration,  who 
watched  him  on  that  drive.  His  breeding  had  not  taught 
him  to  conceal  even  his  surprise,  and  much  more,  his  pleas- 
ure. On  the  spot  he  yielded  generous  tribute  to  the  day, 
the  hour,  and  place.  But  Miss  Fuller  was  responsible  for 
that.  Where  she  had  praised,  he  might  safely  stand  up  in 
his  waggon,  and  closely  survey  the  scene  through  which  he 
passed  at  Sorrel's  slowest  pace. 

At  the  end  of  his  drive  Carradine  could  have  given  a  cor- 
rect estimate  of  the  number  of  ornamental  trees  he  should 
require,  the  quantity  of  gravel,  and  the  time  it  would  take 
Johnson,  with  assistance,  to  transform  "  the  slope  "  into  a 
lawn  like  this. 

For  Mr.  Carradine  had  a  well  arranged  design  in  view, 
else  would  he  never  have  driven  here  to  make  this  obser- 
vation. 

As  he  approached  the  house,  a  workman  busy  in  the 
grounds  came  forward,  hat  in  hand,  with  the  information 
that  the  master  and  his  family  had  left  home  in  the  morn- 
ing, not  "  for  the  Fourth" — they  had  gone  on  a  journey. 

A  brief  conference  with  himself  was  all  Mr.  Carradine  re- 
quired. The  event,  untoward  though  it  seemed,  need  not 


232  PETER    CARRADINE. 

deter  his  proposed  investigation  of  the  stock,  nor,  what  was 
more  directly  to  the  purpose,  an  interview  with  the  head 
gardener,  nor  indeed,  as  it  proved,  with  the  head  house- 
maid. 

In  consequence  of  all  the  enlightenment  he  received,  Mr. 
Carradine  drove  back  to  Brighton,  and  home  to  Martindale, 
with  a  "  ground  plan"  in  his  mind,  and  a  book  on  Landscape 
Gardening  in  his  pocket,  and  a  bargain  well  considered 
among  his  calculations,  that  should  yet  be  made  with  a  high 
authority  among  the  Brighton  architects. 

From  this  time  forth  his  mind  was  occupied  with  one 
thought;  his  brain  teemed  with  plans  for  the  future  which 
that  thought  devised.  He  calculated,  and  provided,  for 
every  contingency.  Prominent  among  his  plans  for  the  fu- 
ture was  the  removal  of  the  Johnson  family  from  his  own 
house  to  another  farm,  on  which  stood  a  building,  respecta- 
ble and  commodious,  capable  at  least  of  being  made  so.  In 
a  time  that  surely  was  to  come  he  would  wish  to  be  no  lon- 
ger under  even  such  observation,  and  exposed  to  such  criti- 
cisms as  possibly  he  might  have  atlhe  hands  of  these  friends 
who  had  gone  with  him  through  the  hurry  and  worry,  the 
toil  and  rest,  of  the  past  ten  years. 

Though  he  might  never  marry,  why  should  a  man  hoard 
his  money,  hide  it  in  banks  and  in  mortgages,  and  live  like 
a  beggar  ?  At  the  moment  when  he  drove  away  from  Mr. 
Hooper's  "  pleasure,"  he  recognized  a  new  claim  on  him,  as 
a  man  of  wealth.  It  was  his  business  to  beautify  the  earth  ; 
at  least  so  much  of  it  as  that  nook  he  occupied,  when  the 
eyes  of  other  people,  such  eyes  as  Mercy  Fuller's,  could 
thereby  be  refreshed. 

Many  were  the  improvements  to  be  made  in  the  old  red 
farm  house  on  the  hill  before  he  would  again  ask  a  woman 
to  become  its  mistress.  But  the  house  itself  should  stand. 
He  would  no  more  have  thought  of  removing  that  "  land- 
mark" than  he  could  have  brought  himself  to  remove  the 
ruins  of  his  father's  house  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

More  than  once  this  solid,  unpretending  man,  this  grave, 
taciturn  farmer  from  Martindale,  this  dealer  in  stock,  went 
over  to  Brighton  and  walked  through  the  gay  furniture 
ware-rooms,  making  himself  a  judge  of  fancy  woods,  of  dam- 
ask and  brocatel ;  and  if  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  any 
house  in  town,  no  man  was  more  observing — the  carpet  on 


MR.  CARRADINE  CONSULTS  MRS.  JOHNSON.     233 

which  he  trod  became  a  known  thing  to  his  eye  and  his 
touch  ;  the  use  of  useful  and  of  ornamental  things  was  solved 
to  his  apprehension  and  appreciation  ;  his  sense  of  comfort 
daily  was  enlarged,  made  to  take  cognizance  of  the  ideas 
of  others, — how  broad  and  fair,  enriched  with  what  splen- 
dor did  the  ideal  Home  arise  !  The  Home  of  Peter  Carra- 
dine. 

Any  decent  order,  any  mere  abundance,  was  good  enough 
for  him,  he  constantly  assured  himself;  and  as  constantly 
allowed  that  since  he  had  more  money  than  he  knew  well 
how  to  use,  he  had  a  special  call  to  embellish  and  adorn  the 
nook  of  ground  which  God  had  given  him.  Was  not  Adam 
set  in  the  garden  to  keep,  and  to  DRESS  it ! 

But  in  fact  Mr.  Carradine  was  thinking  constantly  and 
solely  in  all  he  did  and  purposed  of  Mercy's  taste  and  plea- 
sure :  and  constantly  did  he  endeavor  to  conform  himself  to 
her,  adopting  ways  that  harmonized  with  hers.  It  made  no 
apparent  difference  in  his  secret  calculations  even,  that  he 
had  been  unable  to  achieve  her  consent.  He  did  not  shut 
himself  up  and  out,  to  old  habits  of  barbarism.  Carradine 
was  loving,  once  and  forever,  a  spirit  and  a  fervor  that  was 
not  himself ;  and  in  many  ways  did  he  endeavor  to  conform 
to  it.  It  was  a  moving  spectacle.  Where  such  sights  are 
distinctly  seen,  above  our  mists  and  bewilderments,  far 
away  from  our  dull  oversights  and  sad  misapprehensions,  it 
must  have  been  a  beautiful  spectacle.  To  become,  conscious 
of  imperfection  and  deficiency,  humbly  and  reverently  a  dis- 
ciple, is  always  a  fair  sight — and  this  they  saw  who  from 
their  heights  looked  down  in  tender  sympathy  on  Peter  Car- 
radine, and  wished  him  well,  and  haply  furthered  him,  if 
not  his  endeavor.  4fc 

The  farm  house  must  unquestionably  be  changed — and  in 
many  respects.  It  must  be  painted  throughout — and  two 
coats  at  the  least.  Whitawashers,  and  plasterers,  and  paper 
hangers,  must  prove  their  skill  on  the  loose  dingy  walls,  and 
the  discolored  ceilings.  He  would  consult  with  the  men. 
And  with  Mrs.  Johnson  also  ! 

With  Mrs.  Johnson  at  once  !  And  he  never  thought  to 
wonder  whether  Miss  Fuller  had  betrayed  him,  and  hia 
failure  to  her. 

Nor  did  he  wait  for  any  "  more  convenient  season,"  for 
any  special  moment,  when  all  things  should  make  the  way 


234  PETER   CARRADINE. 

to  such  speech  easy.  Carradine  had  not  been  so  gently 
dealt  with  as  to  have  become  a  student  of  the  ways  and 
means  of  a  cautious  self-love.  It  came  out  as  if  he  had  asked 
any  question  about  field-work. 

"  Mrs.  Johnson,  let  me  see  how  long  is  it  we  have  lived 
in  the  old  rookery  together  ?" 

"  Ten  years,  Mr.  Carradine.  Ten  years  lacking  one 
month.  Coming  September,  we're  up  to  the  day  when 
Johnson  and  I  first  stood  out  there  and  heard  you  bothering 
about  the  crockery  that  was  broken  on  the  corduroy." 

"  Yes,  yes — and  you  looked  like  a  couple  of  drownded 
rats,  and  very  homesick,  when  you  saw  the  crockery.  You 
never  thought  it  was  made  up  to  you — and  I  know  you 
couldn't,  in  reason,  if  I  gave  you  a  crockery  store  out  of 
Brighton.  I  know  when  a  bit  of  the  old  comes  on  the  table 
— the  dish  for  the  honey — you  keep  that  by  itself  yet." 

"  I  never  gin  it  into  another's  hands  for  a  washing — it  was 
give  to  me  before  I  ever  see  Johnson." 

"  Ten  years  !"  mused  Carradine.  "  I  thought  it  wouldn't 
be  that  long  when  we  were  getting  through  the  first  twelve- 
month. But  we  understand  each  other  better  now.  I  hope 
we  shall  always  live  within  sight  of  each  other,  It  speaks 
well  for  us  all,  that  we  could  live  peaceably  under  one  roof 
so  long." 

"  That's  what  we're  often  saying,  sir,  Johnson  and  me," 
she  answered,  drawing  a  long  breath,  and  to  herself  ob- 
serving, "  There's  something  curious  hanging  to  the  tail  of 
this  here." 

"  And  there's  that  boy  of  yours  !  I  couldn't  think  more 
of  the  chap  if  he  belonged  to  me.  I  had  Harry  in  my  arms 
before  he  was  two  days  old.  ^pshall  .look  out  for  Harry. 
I'm  Harry's  uncle,  you  know.  That  makes  me  brother  to 
you  !  Do  you  like  the  relation,  Mrs.  Johnson  ?" 

Mrs.  Johnson  could  have  smiled  with  her  whole  heart,  if  it 
must  not  needs  be  she  should  smile  with  but  half  a  one.  • 
There  was  something  coming  yet !  Mercy  Fuller  flashed 
before  her  thought.  It  was  for  that  her  face  flushed,  and 
•not  by  any  means  because  of  Mr.  Carradine 's  kind  pleas- 
antry. 

"  There's  nary  one  out  the  house,  sir,  stands  a  chance 
with  Uncle  Carradine  with  Harry,"  she  answered. 

And  now  there  was  a  pause — the  silence  was  that  which 


MR.  CARRADINE  CONSULTS  MRS.  JOHNSON.     235 

novelists  compare  with  the  profound  stillness  that  precedes 
the  storm's  revelations  on  a  summer's  day.  Then,  in  a  lower 
voice  that  was  quite  natural,  spoke  Carradine, 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  fitting  up  the  Bronson  farm-house, 
Mrs.  Johnson.  I  was  round  there  this  morning,  looking  at 
it.  It  seems  a  pity  such  a  good  house  should  go  to  ruin,  all 
for  want  of  tenants  ;  and  that's  what  you've  said  to  me  more 
than  once.  And  not  half  the  work  you  have  up  here  in  this 
big  barn  of  a  place." 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  with  a  pang  of  quicken- 
ing intelligence,  "  I  don't  know  who  could  say  I  ever  com- 
plained of  the  red  farm  housen  !  Work  is  work,  wherever 
you  find  it.  And  I'm  none  of  your  grumblers,  Mr.  Carra- 
dine, whatever  else  I  be."  • 

"  Bless  you  !  don't  I  know  it  ?  Bat  I  want  to  do  the 
best  by  you — that's  all.  You'll  be  your  own  masters  and 
mistresses  down  there,  and  feel  more  at  home,  I'm  sure. — 
Besides,  it  will  be  handier  there  for  Jobson.  Vastly.  I 
always  thought  this  house  stood  in  an  out  of  the  way,  ridic- 
ulous situation,  except  for  star-gazers.  I  don't  mean  to 
have  the  heft  of  the  farm  work  done  up  here  much  longer. 
That's  one  reason  why  I  think  it  will  be  best  to  get  you  and 
Johnson,  and  the  chap,  to  living  down  there  in  the  fall.  I 
can  make  a  nice  little  place  of  it,  and  it  shall  be  all  done  to 
your  mind." 

"  That's  one  reason — what's  the  other,  Mr.  Carradine  ?  I 
expect  it  isn't  us  you're  thinking  on,  altogether." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  fear  now  ;  the  cloud  was  rent, 
the  bolt  had  fallen  ;  she  had  a  right  to  know  the  worst. 
That  her  voice  expressed — and  that  he  recognized. 

"  The  other,"  said  he,  looking  at  her  as  if  ashamed  of  his 
embarrassment,  so  confident  that  she  would  be  pleased,  or 
should  be  pleased  by  the  announcement — "  the  other  is  that 
I  am  going  to  make  the  old  place  all  over  again,  and  it  won't 
look  any  longer  so  much  like  a  rookery.  You  ought  to  be 
glad  of  it.  I  know  you  well  enough  to  see  that  you  would 
approve  of  the  changes  if  you  were  once  fairly  outside." 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  married,  Mr.  Carradine  ?" 

This  was  a  question.  Before  he  answered,  Carradine 
looked  through  the  soul  of  the  woman  who  asked  it — then 
his  face  softened,  the  displeasure  with  which  it  had  quick- 
ened passed  quite  out  of  sight — and  he  said, 


236  PETER  CARRADINE. 

"  What  woman  in  the  world  would  have  me,  do  you 
think  ?" 

Quick  was  the  answer — "  There's  plenty,  I  guess,  that's 
got  business  enough  on  hand  of  setting  their  caps  for  you." 
But  before  the  words  had  fairly  escaped  her,  the  penitent 
soul  of  the  woman  fell  low  before  the  thought  of  Mercy 
Fuller. 

"  Would  you  give  your  consent,  then,  Mrs.  Johnson  ?  I'm 
sure  you  would  be  glad  if  so  much  was  to  be  made  of  Car- 
radine  after  all." 

"  Pleased,  sir  !  Then  't  '11  happen  !  I  knew  it.  No  ! 
I'm  not  pleased  one  bit  nor  grain.  What's  any  woman  go- 
ing to  do  to  make  more  of  you,  but  a  bill  of  expense  ?" 

"  Well — well,  I  thank  you  for  your  good  opinion.  If  ever 
I  take  a  wife,  and  I  don't  see  that  it's  likely,  you  must  think 
I've  got  a  prize,  for  I  shall  have  one,  Mrs.  Johnson.  We've 
thought  alike  so  long,  you  know,  we  must  keep  it  up  to  the 
end." 

"  Prize  !  there  ain't  no  prizes  !  They  say  it's  a  lottery, 
marriage  is  !  But  if  I  thought  Miss  Fuller  was  a  blank, 
and  warned  you  of  it,  sir,  you  couldn't  be  made  to  see  it. 
Nobody  ever  was,  who  got  his  mind  set  that  way." 

"  Miss  Fuller  !"  said  Mr.  Carradine — "  what  made  you 
think  of  her  ?" 

"  Who  else  is  there  to  think  of?" 

"  Why,  one  needn't  go  as  far  as  Brighton,  need  he,  to 
find  a  good  wife  ?  Ain't  the  girls  of  Martindell  good  enough, 
any  one  of  them,  for  Peter  Carradine  ?  Now  I  put  it  to  you, 
Mrs.  Johnson." 

"  May  be,"  she  answered.  Then  looking  at  him  as  if  puz- 
zled and  impatient  with  this  strange  talk,  "  I  know  well 
what  you  think.  There's  one  woman,  not  reared  in  Martin- 
dell,  goodness  knows  where  she  did  come  from,  but  she's 
good  enough.  I've  nothing  to  say  agen  her,  but  it  took  a 
stranger  to  come  here  and  work  a  miracle,  as  one  might  say, 
a'most." 

"  You're  mistaken,  though,"  said  Carradine  quietly,  amu- 
sed by  Mrs.  Johnson's  unusual  spirit,  and  the  vexation  she 
cared  not  in  the  least  to  conceal. 

"  Now  there's  Randy,"  he  began — but  he  -got  no  further. 
That  was  the  word  too  many  in  connection  with  the  fore- 
gone. 


MR.  CARRADINE  CONSULTS  MRS.  JOHNSON.     237 

"  Handy  !  Yes,  and  a  first  best  of  a'  girl.  But  all  you 
could  do  for  her  was  to  pick  a  quarrel.  How  '11  I  forgive 
myself  when  it  was  my  own  boy  set  you  on  to  that  ?" 

"  I  think  much  of  Randy,  Mrs.  Johnson.  And  you're  in 
a  fog — that's  all.  We're  friends  at  heart  this  moment,  I  be- 
lieve. I  respect  Randy.  You  must  believe  that.  She's  a 
good  woman — a  fine  girl,  Randy  is." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  for  that  !  You  never  said  a  truer 
thing,"  said  Mrs,  Johnson  with  spirit,  and  she  looked  for 
the  instant  as  pleased,  as  if  she  had  received  a  personal 
compliment.  He  took  advantage  of  that  moment. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  down  to  look  at  the  farm- 
house so  that  I  can  give  my  orders  when  I  go  to  town.  I 
want  your  advice."  And  he  started  off.  She  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  follow.  She  knew  that  there  was  no  reversal 
to  be  expected  of  his  decision.  He  had  said  that  marriage 
was  not  his  intention — or,  as  good  as  said  it.  And  though 
she  did  not  quite  believe  it,  the  assurance  half  reconciled 
her,  strange  to  say. 

Accordingly  they  walked  down  together  to  the  Bronson 
farm  house. 

And  Mr.  Carradine,  leading  the  way  tnrough  that  habita- 
tion, which  Mrs.  Johnson  knew  he  had  intended,  in  the 
spring,  to  turn  into  a  store-house  when  the  fall  should  come, 
pointed  out  to  her  the  changes  he  would  have  the  carpenters 
make  in  it,  and  explained  the  effect  to  be  produced  by  paint 
and  furniture,  to  all  which  she  gave  her  consent,  and  seemed 
while  he  was  sneaking,  almost  pleased. 

He  was  glad  thus  to  construe  the  expression  of  her  face 
and  the  words  she  spoke,  for  he  would  not  have  been  easy 
in  his  mind  if  he  had  thought  the  contemplated  changes 
would  really  long  disturb  that  pains-taking,  honest  woman, 

But  she  had  in  the  end  disguised  her  real  feelings.  The 
source  of  many  a  future  hour's  homesickness  was  hidden  un- 
der her  consenting  smile.  The  big  housen,  which  she  had 
often  complained  of,  never  looked  so  pleasant  to  her  as  when 
they  returned  to  it  from  visiting  the  Bronson  cottage. 
Henceforth  the  old  red  farm  house  was  to  stand  in  place  of 
the  village  home  she  had  pined  for  these  many  years.  To 
its  doors  and  windows  she  would  fasten  her  flags  of  distress; 
the  banners  of  memory,  covered  over  with  significant  devi- 
ces. There  her  Harry  was  born — there  her  husband  was 


238  PETER   CARRADINE. 

converted — there  the  baby  died.  There  she  had  toiled — and 
all  her  rest  was  there  !  What  misunderstandings — what  re- 
conciliations under  that  old  roof  !  The  farm  house  on  the 
hill  was  become  a  sarcophagus — and  there  was  entombed  her 
glory ! 


THE    PROGRESS    OF   AFFAIRS. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE      PEOGEESS      OF      AFFAIES. 

Miss  FULLER  came  back  to  Martindale  on  Sunday  after- 
noon ;  and  on  Monday  morning  resumed  her  school  teach- 
ing. Full  of  calm  serenity  she  went  about  her  work — things 
external  took  their  usual  course.  Except  that  Mr.  Carra- 
dine  began  his  improvements,  making  preparations  for  the 
work  he  intended  to  prosecute  vigorously  when  the  season's 
hurry  should  be  over.  Sometimes  he  might  have  been 
found  in  an  hour  of  rest  reading  books  that  Mercy  talked 
about.  Sometimes  he  might  have  been  found  in  quiet  con- 
versation with  her,  but  to  their  talk  any  third  person  might 
have  listened  without  apology.  Mrs.  Johnson  was  at  a  sore 
loss. 

When  the  improvements  were  at  length  begun  in  the  old 
house,  and  became  legitimate  subjects  of  neighborhood  spe- 
^culation,  in  that  a  modern  residence  was  manifestly  to  be 
made  of  the  ancient  dwelling,  Mr.  Carradine  vouchsafed  this 
gracious  answer,  that  he  had  concluded  if  he  must  grow  old, 
he  would  not  at  the  same  time  grow  rusty  ;  he  had  done  as 
much  as  any  other  man  towards  improving  the  stock  of  the 
surrounding  country  ;  he  had  imported  more  than  any  other 
man  within  a  dozen  miles,  had  hazarded  and  lost  more  ;  and 
having  done  this  duty,  he  was  now  going  to  do  his  pleasure, 
i  while  he  held  it  to  be  a  duty  also,  and  he  advised  his  neigh- 
bors to  follow  his  example,  and  not  live  in  worse  houses 
-than  they  gave  their  cattle. 

He  got  through  these  explanations  with  a  better  grace, 
and  more  readily  than  he  anticipated — for  the  comments 
and  speculations  of  his  neighbors  had  in  prospect  made  Car- 
radine sometimes  nervous.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  one  and 
all  must  see  through  hia  notions.  And  yet  he  was  not,  he 


240  PETER   CARRADINE. 

hoped,  attempting  to  make  of  his  house  a  decoy.  Surely 
Mias  Fuller  was  not  a  woman  to  be  won  by  any  such  de- 
vice 1 

Miranda,  in  these  days,  was  not  neglecting  penmanship. 
Now  and  then  a  letter  came  from  the  minister,  bearing  her 
address  ;  it  always  had  an  answer.  But  never  letter  came 
or  went  that  was  unobserved  by  Senior  Jobson.  Once  he 
read  half  through  one  of  these  epistles  from  the  minister,  for 
Randy  placed  it  open  in  his  hands,  but  it  did  not  interest  or 
amuse  him  ;  he  saw  nothing  in  it  except  a  decent  chirogaphy 
— as  to  suspicion  or  jealousy,  he  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  any  other  nonsense.  Not  he  !  the  girl  he  trusted  and 
asked  to  be  his  wife  was,  as  Caesar's  wife  should  have  been, 
above  suspicion.  "  Not  at  all,  or  all  in  all,"  she  was  to  be 
believed  in,  and  he,  a  man  ostensibly  without  faith,  credited 
to  the  full,  wholly  relied  on  Miranda.  To  the  full,  I  say — 
that  is,  according  to  the  necessity  admitted,  the  desirable- 
ness acknowledged. 

The  fact  that  he  desired  to  marry  her,  recognized  her 
efficience,  admired  the  vision  of  the  future  landlady  of  the 
renewed  Spread  Eagle,  did  not  necessitate  on  his  part  a 
love  that  should  transform  him  to  the  entire  retrieval  of  his 
character,  taste  and  being.  His  regard  for  Randy  was  the 
finest  sentiment,  and  the  best  developed,  of  which  his  state 
was  cognizant,  but  so  far  as  it  was  developed  it  was  not  an 
omnipotent  sentiment,  capable  of  his  entire  transformation. 

But  as  these  letters  came  and  went,  how  were  they  read, 
how  written  by  Miranda  ?  As  by  one  who  sees  an  opportu* 
nity  of  improvement,  and  ambitiously  avails  herself  thereof  ? 
She  was,  in  truth,  a  severe  student  in  this  matter,  and  the 
letters  were  such  a  rescript  as  had  authority  with  him  to 
whom  they  came. 

They  were  religious  themes  that  chiefly  occupied  them  ; 
it  was  under  this  form  that  the  highest  life  of  Miranda  es- 
caped her  and  came  within  another's  cognizance.  Some- 
times she  would  repeat  to  Senior  what  she  had  written  on 
some  point,  but  he  did  not  often  see  it  in  her  light,  and 
passed  carelessly,  if  not  rudely,  over  some  matter  vital  to 
her,  and  sure  to  be  recognized  as  such  by  the  deep-thinking 
man  to  whom  she  had  more  directly  addressed  the  medita- 
tion, or  confession,  whichever  it  might  be. 

This  was  the  truth  concerning  her  ;  that  since  the  camp- 


THE    PROGRESS   OF   AFFAIRS.  241 

meeting  Randy's  life  had  grown  in  a  direction  unforeseen  by 
her,  or  by  any  mortal  man  or  woman  of  that  town  of  Martin- 
dale  ;  through  avenues  unnoticed  before,  the  tide  of  her  life 
was  pouring,  in  its  richness  and  its  strength  ;  a  pure  and 
sparkling  tide,  whose  banks  seemed  firm  and  high  ;  no  dan- 
ger now  of  the  wasteful  morass,  the  dismal  slough !  All  was 
open,  clear  and  pure  ! 

And  Sally's  accusation,  which  had  caused  her  much  pain 
indeed,  had  done  no  damage  surely — possibly  much  service. 
One  does  not  fall  in  love  if  he  is  on  his  guard  against  sur- 
prise, from  without  or  within — does  he,  oh  gentle  reader  ? 
Randy  might  trust  herself  to  read  and  to  write  those  letters. 
Growing  every  day  in  wisdom,  and  in  goodness,  as  her  fa- 
ther testified,  and  as  Jobson  could  not  help  seeing,  and  as 
her  own  heart  might  have  told  her,  she  could  not  also,  at 
the  same  time,  have  suffered  from  an  increasing  blindness 
that  could  hinder  her  from  seeing  the  way  she  went,  whither 
she  was  going.  "What  must  be  the  end  ?  Certain  it  is  that 
conjecture  as  to  what  the  end  of  all  this  friendly  intercourse 
might  be,  did  not  trouble  her.  So  she  would  have  said  and 
deemed  had  the  question  been  suggested.  But  there  were 
other  matters  that  did  greatly  trouble  Randy.  At  times 
there  was  that  in  the  manner  of  Sally  Green  that  she  could 
not  understand,  and  it  greatly  disturbed  her.  It  surprised 
her  into  doubts,  and  questionings,  connected  with  past  ex- 
periences— the  days  of  camp-meeting — the  gift  of  the  hymn- 
book — the  letters  Elder  Green  sometimes  received  from  Mr. 
Collamer,  and  the  Elder's  acknowledgment  to  Samuel  Roy, 
that,  if  the  minister  wanted  his  daughter,  he  would  say  Amen 
to  it,  and  God  bless  her. 

Since  that  morning  when  Randy  helped  Sally  to  dress 
for  the  celebration  of  the  Fourth  at  Brighton,  it  had  seemed 
to  her  as  if  something  hindered  their  approach  to  each  other. 
They  met  but  rarely,  and  on  those  occasions  Sally's  mind 
seemed  to  be  pre-occupied,  even  gravely  absorbed. 

Besides,  a  mania  for  household  industry  seemed  to  have 
seized  upon  her.  She  occupied  herself  zealously  with  mat- 
ters of  domestic  economy,  in  a  manner  perfectly  astonishing 
to  those  familiar  with  her  lifelong  habits.  There  were  times 
when,  in  view  of  this  change,  which  was  accompanied  by  an 
unusual  docility,  blessed  Huldah  Green  regretted  that  she 

11 


242  PETER  CARRADINE. 

had  unburdened  her  thoughts  in  regard  to  Sally  in  Miss  Ful- 
ler's hearing. 

Sally  and  Oliver  did  not  often  meet  in  these  days.  The 
rino'  she  missed  on  her  return  from  the  holiday  was  not  to 
be  found,  though  she  had  searched  the  carriage,  and  the 
shed,  and  the  lane.  Oliver,  disturbed  by  its  continued  in- 
visibility, asked  some  plain  questions,  which  were  answered 
with  something  like  evasion.  She  had  told  him  that  he  must 
look  for  no  change  in  his  circumstances  until  autumn,  and,  of 
course,  expected  that  he  would  abide  by  that  decision  ;  mean- 
while it  was  not  her  purpose  to  excite  suspicion,  or  to  disturb 
any  person's  peace  of  mind  merely  for  the  sake  of  decorating 
her  fourth  finger  !  In  the  fall  he  would  see'  that  she  had  done 
wisely.  While  she  spoke  thus,  or  while  they  remained  togeth- 
er, it  was  not  difficult  for  Sally  to  convince  him — but  he  would 
not  stay  convinced.  Returning  to  the  squalor  and  discon- 
tent of  his  own  home,  or  to  the  daily  toil^by  which  he  lived, 
he  was  ready  to  give  credence  to  any  bar-room  gossip  con- 
cerning Sally's  doings  or  intentions,  or  the  Elder's  purposes 
and  ambition  concerning  her — or  he  allowed  some  unfortu- 
nate word  of  hers  to  rankle  in  his  memory,  till  it  was  sore 
and  exasperating.  Until  she  should  acknowledge  him,  he 
felt  by  no  means  sure  of  his  great  prize,  in  spite  of  marriage 
ring  and  marriage  certificate. 

Moreover,  Oliver  had  legitimate  cause  for  much  mental  dis- 
turbance. He  was  encumbering  himself  with  debts.  He  had 
the  faculty  of  borrowing  money,  and  of  spending  it  again  in 
ways  that  might  seem  to  a  sober-minded  person  incredible. 
The  surprising  part  of  it  was  that  he  himself  never  seemed 
to  know  what  he  had  done  with  his  capital — so  it  was  also 
that  often,  when  at  Brighton,  he  was  making  such  purchases 
on  credit  as  nobody  but  lunatics  or  imbeciles  ever  dreamed 
of  doing.  Running  in  debt  for  finery  and  folly,  being  clearly 
an  imbecile  or  insane  style  of  business.  Alas,  poor  Oliver  ! 
must  he  not  make  his  wife  some  bridal  gifts  ?  and  those 
showy,  precious  ornaments,  he  knew  she  would  admire 
them  !  he  should  be  able  to  pay  for  them  soon.  One  way 
and  another,  it  was  all  easy  enough.  And  so  he  put  his 
neck  into  a  halter. 

I  wonder,  thinking  of  it,  if  it  had  best  be  written  ?  Will 
any  one  credit  that  he  could  believe  a  man  might  buy  favor 
of  his  wife  by  a  gift  of  gold  and  stones  ?  (at  the  worst  fair 


THE    PROGRESS   OP   AFFAIRS.  243 

imitations.)  Will  any  one  credit  the  story  that  this  young 
man  took  immoderate  satisfaction  in  the  person  he  arrayed, 
even  at  the  cost  of  some  distracting  wonder  as  to  how  his 
tailor's  bill  was  to  be  satisfied?  Could  Sally's  expression 
of  pleasure  outlast  her  rebuke  of  his  extravagance  ?  Could 
the  condition  of  his  mother  and  his  sisters  alleviate  his  de- 
light as  he  remembered  a  look  of  admiration,  or  some  kind 
word  of  Sally's  ?  But  then  he  was  a  man  of  large  expecta- 
tions. 

Sally's  anxieties  about  Oliver  turned  in  various  direc- 
tions. She  had  not  entire  confidence  in  his  discretion — and 
more  and  more  she  dreaded  the  confession  of  the  marriage. 
A  morbid  fear  was  gaining  ground,  and  she  now  regretted 
that  she  had  not  at  once  shown  her  father  the  certificate. 
Since  she  became  more  helpful  and  obedient  in  the  house, 
her  relations  to  the-family  seemed  to  have  changed  entirely  ; 
she  felt  herself  drawn  toward  her  own  people,  and  less  and 
less  toward  Oliver.  She  shrank  from  seeing  him,  from  con- 
versing with  him  ;  and  these  signs,  so  ominous,  were  hailed 
with  joy  by  her  parents. 

Indeed,  it  seemed  so  clear  to  them,  that  apprehensions 
on  this  ground  were  idle  now,  that  Elder  Green  had  no  hes- 
itation, as  the  summer  harvest  approached,  to  engage  Oliver 
among  his  hands  ;  and  Oliver  accordingly  came  down  to 
labor  in  the  fields,  and  break  bread,  and  sleep  under  the 
roof  that  sheltered  the  daughter  of  the  house. 

The  afternoon  on  which  he  came  he  found  Sally  alone  in 
the  kitchen  ;  her  father  and  mother  had  gone  to  town  ;  and 
Esther  Green  was  taking  her  usual  nap.  When  he  came  to 
the  door  and  saw  Sarah  within,  he  tossed  the  bundle  of 
clothes  he  had  swung  over  his  shoulder  into  a  corner,  and 
said : 

"  Here's  something  I've  been  trying  to  make  out.  See 
if  you  know  what  it  is.  It  sounds  to  me  like  a  love  letter. 
I'd  like  you  to  write  me  one  1"  And  he  gave  her  a  folded 
bit  of  paper. 

She  took  it,  but  without  looking  at  it,  said  : 

"  I  will,  if  you'll  promise  to  go  far  enough  to  pay  for  the 
postage  and  trouble." 

"  How  far  may  that  be  ?"  he  asked,  in  doubt  as  to  her 
meaning. 

"  There,"  said  she,  handing  him  a  newspaper  which  she 


244  PETER     CARRADINE. 

had  been  reading.     It  had  fallen  on  the  floor  while  she  sat 
meditating  what  she  read. 

"  Read  that  letter  from  Australia.  It  is  a  good  way  from 
here,  I  should  think.  And  it  might  cost  a  great  deal  to  get 
there — but  if  you  cared  to  go  and  make  your  fortune,  every 
one  does  that  goes,  I  think  I  could  raise  the  money.  I  would 
try." 

"  Will  you  go  too  ?" 

"  No,  but  I'll  wait  here  for  you  till  you  get  back  a;rnin  !" 
A  single  expressive  sound  escaped  his  lips.  And  he 
looked  at  Sally  as  if  he  were  wondering  whether  she  could 
be  in  earnest.  She  smiled.  She  had  expected  no  better 
success — and  yet,  oh  that  oceans  rolled  between  them  ! 
Thus  she  vacillated  ;  vexed  like  the  waves — tossing  to  and 
fro — seeking  rest  and  finding  none.  And  matters  were 
not  improved  for  either  as  they  now  sat  in  silence,  reading 
what  each  had  given  the  other.  For  the  Australian  letter, 
if  it  reported  great  gains,  rehearsed  likewise  great  hard- 
ships, pains  and  dangers  ;  and  danger  and  toil  were  not 
among  the  things  Oliver  Savage  coveted. 

The  written  paper  Sally  held  in  her  hand  she  recognized 
at  once  as  the  work  of  Miranda.  Small,  fine  characters,  as 
if  copied  from  some  quaint  old  manuscript,  legible  as  print, 
and  this  was  written  : 

"  Yes,  it  does  please  me  to  write  to  you,  Sir.  Sometimes 
I  think,  so  uncertain  is  our  life,  it  may  be  I  shall  see  your 
face  no  more.  As  I  write  to  vou,  it  seems  that  you  could 
not  be  farther  away.  Not  if  you  had  gone  out  of  this  world  ; 
only  then  1  must  remember  that  between  us  and  the  dead 
no  letters  can  pass.  They  cannot  tell  us  so  that  we  shall 
not  be  mistaken,  of  what  they  are  now  thinking,  or  what 
they  now  do  ;  neither  can  they  say  what  now  they  most  long 
for.  But  all  this  can  pass  between  us.  There  seems  to  me 
something  like  eternity  in  my  feeling  towards  you,  and  in 
my  speaking  to  you.  As  if  it  had  gone  on  forever,  and 
would  go  on  forever.  Ever  since  I  said  to  you  on  the  camp- 
ing-ground '  I  am  lost ;  I  despair  !'  and  you  took  me  by  the 
hand  and  said,  '  Bo  saved  !  Hope  all  things  !  I  bring  you 
word  from  my  God,  this  he  desires  you  to  do  ;'  I  seem  to 
feel  assured  that  he  did  send  you  to  speak  to  me.  And  so 
long  as  you  speak  I  listen  as  to  one  He  has  sent.  Then 
you  will  ask  me  if  you  should  ever,  for  any  reason,  because 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  AFFAIRS.        245 

of  much  work,  or  of  weariness,  or  from  any  other  cause, 
cease  to  speak  to  me  in  this  way,  would  I  feel  that  the 
great  God  has  withdrawn  from  me  1 — Means  to  bless  me  and 
guide  me  no  more  ? — To  cleanse  my  sins  and  give  me  under- 
standing no  longer  ? — I  must  say,  Sir,  no.  Earthly  friends 
may  fail,  but  He  cannot.  And  I  think  I  should  not  feel, 
under  any  circumstances,  that  you  had  really  failed  me. 
It  seems  to  me  I  should  know  that  nothing  could  really 
hurt  our  friendship  ;  that  though,  all  our  lives,  it  should 
seem  to  be  dead,  we  should  find  in  the  next  life  that  it  too 
was  alive  again." 

He  had  said  he  would  like  her  to  write  him  a  letter,  tak- 
ing that  for  a  model !  She  was  painfully  conscious,  as  she 
looked  at  him,  of  the  utter  lack  of  the  ability  which  feeling 
confers  to  write  such  a  letter  to  Oliver.  Yet.  let  any  per- 
son try  to  show  her  that  she  does  not  love  him !  or  to  prove 
his  unworthiness ! 

"  Did  you  make  it  out  ?"  said  he,  dropping  the  news- 
paper. % 

"  Pretty  well.    It  is  Randy's  writing.    To  Mr.  Collamer,  I 
suppose.    She  writes  to  him." 
"  Don't  it  sound  like  a  love  letter  ?" 
"  No.    It's  about  friendship.      Friendship  and  love   are 
two  things." 

He  seemed  to  think  he  did  not  need  she  should  explain 
that  to  him. 

"  Your  father  says  I  must  be  here,  off  and  on,  three 
weeks." 

"  If  you  should  go  to  the  gold  diggings,  it  would  be  harder 
work  for  a  little  white,"  said  she,  "  but  no  work  at  all,  for 
all  j'our  lifetime,  after  that." 

"  I  don't  expect  to  be  living  this  kind  of  a  dog's  life  a 
long  while  yet,"  he  answered.  "  You  musn't  expect  it.  I'm 
your  true  and  lawful  husband." 

"  Don't  speak  that  word  again  under  this  roof,  till  I  give 
you  leave  !"  said  she,  hurriedly,  in  manifest  alarm. 

If  he  had  spoken  as  if  he  was  by  no  means  decided  that 
he  would  not  assert  his  rights,  she  assumed  a  tone  not  less 
threatening — and  the  contest  between  them  was  begun  with 
a  spirit  that  promised  no  speedy  surrender  on  either  hand. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  don't  know  about  that ! 
When  a  man  marries  a  woman,  it's  expected,  if  she  gives 


246  PETER   CARRADINE. 

her  free  consent,  that  she  will  be  known  as  his  wife,  and  not 
be  ashamed  of  what  she's  done.  But  there's  no  way  to 
please  you." 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  she  said — she  would  conciliate  him.  "  I 
have  my  reasons.  I  don't  want  father  to  be  troubled  about 
anything  through  harvest." 

"  Troubled  !" 

"  Yes  !  you  know  you  are  not  the  son  he  would  be  like  to 
pray  for.  You  can  do  as  you  please,  but  I'm  tired  of  trying 
to  keep  you  to  your  word.  What  with  looking  out  to  know  if 
you  are  sober,  or  not  in  your  right  mind,  and  likely  to  tell  all, 
you  wear  the  life  out  of  me.  And  if  you  want  to  speak  out, 
all  I  say  now  is,  speak  !  Tell  about  our  marriage  !" 

"  By  thunder,  there's  our  father  and  mother  coining  now. 
If  you  dare  me,  I  will !" 

"  Dare  you  !  Well  then,  do  it  !  Then  you'll  hear  me  say- 
ing to  father  that  I  know  I  was  a  fool,  and  was  overper- 
suaded — but  I'll  have  a  divorce — and  I  can  get  it !  You 
needn't  think  he  would  spare  anj  money  to  set  me  free 
from  you.  He  can  prove  that  I  was  crazy,  I  am  sure,  in  any 
court !' 

So  saying,  Sally  walked  into  the  next  room,  and  left  Oli- 
ver sitting  in  the  kitchen,  studying  the  newspaper,  which  he 
had  spread  out  on  the  kitchen  table.  Oliver,  it  may  be 
guessed,  said  nothing  about  Sally's  sudden  exit,  when  Hul- 
dah  Green  came  in  and  found  her  kitchen  thus  occupied. 

"  Here's  Oliver  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Alone  !  Why,  couldn't 
you  find  any  one  in  the  house  ?" 

Here  Sally  came  in,  and  though  it  assured  the  mother's 
heart  when  she  saw  the  indifference  w*th  which  the  pair 
met  and  regarded  each  other,  still  she  thought  the  girl,  af- 
ter all,  rather  hard  on  the  poor  fellow,  and  made  up  by 
kindness  for  the  pain  he  might  have  felt  at  Sally's  manner. 

She  had  indeed,  for  a  time  silenced  Oliver.  As  she 
could  well  see.  But  even  this  assurance  was  not  comforta- 
ble, satisfying.  She  felt  no  certainty  that,  at  all  times, 
under  all  circumstances,  until  she  should  choose,  she  would 
compel  him  to  silence.  He  was  rash,  fiery.  He  might  by 
a  word  expose  all,  if  his  pride  felt  any  damage,  if  for  an  in- 
stant he  seemed  to  be  ranked  with  other  laborers  by  the 
men  themselves,  or  their  master,  or  their  master's  wife  and 
daughter. 


PROGRESS   OF   AFFAIRS.  247 

He  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  she  was  by  no  means 
so  entirely  at  ease  in  her  mind,  so  prepared  for  any  event, 
as  she  would  have  him  suppose.  He  took  advantage  of  the 
fact  whenever  she  chanced  to  be  with  him  and  the  other  la- 
borers in  her  mother's  absence.  There  was  a  strange 
freedom  in  his  words  and  looks,  which  she  did  not  resent, 
and  which  made  the  workingmen  regard  him  with  surprise, 
for  they  all  held  the  Elder's  daughter  in  great  esteem. 
Sometimes  they  cautioned  him  to  keep  more  quiet  and  be- 
have with  more  respect,  but  the  silly  fellow  was  not  to  be 
warned  ;  and  always  boastful,  it  was  not  likely  that  he  would 
drop  the  practice  here. 

So  they  acted  on  each  other,  till  the  bold  self-willed 
girl  was  a  captive  to  her  fears.  They  beset  her  wherever 
she  went.  She  was  in  perpetual  alarm.  She  and  Oliver 
seemed  to  live  but  to  torment  each  other  !  Oh,  if  the  cer- 
tificate could  be  destroyed  as  the  ring  was  lost!  Oh,  if  a 
fact  could  ever  cease  to  be  one  ! 

One  day  her  father  came  into  the  kitchen,  where  they  all 
sat  at  nightfall.  Esther  Green,  and  Huldah,  and  Oliver. 
He  went  up  to  his  daughter  with  a  ring  on  the  tip  of  his  fin- 
ger. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  you  like  such  things  ;  there's  a  plain 
gold  ring  for  you — I  found  it  in  the  shed — you  may  keep  it 
for  the  owner." 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Huldah  Green  ;  and,  having  examined 
it,  she  passed  it  to  her  mother  ;  so  it  made  the  circuit,  and 
came  back  to  Sally,  who  tried  it  first  on  one  finger,  and  then 
on  another,  but  it  only  fitted  the  fourth  finger  of  her  left 
hand. 

"  Don't  wear  it  on  that  finger,"  said  her  motner,  "  that's 
for  the  marriage  ring." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  put  it  around  my  neck,"  said 
Sally.  But  she  drew  it  from  her  finger  and  let  it  lie  on 
her  palm. 

"  Perhaps  it  belongs  to  Oliver,"  she  said,  and  she  handed 
it  to  him. 

He  was  burning  with  wrath,  but  he  took  the  ring,  and 
laughed  at  his  own  clumsy  attempt  to  pass  it  over  his  little 
finger. 

"  It  must  be  yours,"  he  said,  and  gave  it  back  to  Sally. 
She  held  it  again  on  her  palm. 


248  PETER  CA.RRADINE. 

"  That's  the  wife's  finger,"  said  Huldah  Green  again  ;  and 
she  showed  her  own  gold  ring — and  lifted  the  old  hand  of 
Esther  and  showed  on  it  a  similar  adornment 

"  Almost  worn  out,"  said  Esther.  "  I  expected  it  would 
have  worn  through  before  this  ;  it  was  a  fine  gold  ring,  and 
your  father  paid  a  pretty  sum  for  it,  Elder.  He  paid  as  he 
went  along,  and  the  balance  he  had  left  when  he  had  bought 
the  ring  and  paid  the  minister,  wasn't  over  and  above  a 
pretty  small  start.  But  we  were  prudent.  We  wasted 
nought.  It's  the  fine  gold  that  wears  well.  But  we  must 
all  wear  out.  •  The  ring  is  getting  thin,  Huldah." 

Sally  now  took  the  ring  up  from  her  palm,  and  put  it  up- 
on her  finger,  and  said  she  must  ask  the  neighbors'  girls  if 
any  one  of  them  had  met  with  a  loss.  She  thought  she  knew 
the  finger  it  belonged  to. 


A   FINANCIAL   CRISIS.  249 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

A      FINANCIAL      CRISIS. 

OLIVER  watched  his  opportunity,  and  when  he  found  Sal- 
ly alone,  said,  gloomily  : 

"  So  you  lost  the  ring  ?" 

"  Yes.  No  good  luck  in  that,"  she  answered,  with  a  sort 
of  doubtful  defiance.  Let  him  not  take  her  to  task  !  It  was 
far  from  his  purpose — farther  than  it  was  from  his  desire. 

"  But  father  found  it — your  father  did  ;  and  you  put  it  on 
before  them  all !" 

"  Yes,  and  I  mean  to  wear  it,  Oliver,"  said  Sally,  for  she 
thought  that,  perhaps  after  all,  it  was  an  omen  for  good  that 
her  father  had  found  the  ring.  And,  besides,  there  was 
something  in  his  voice  and  face  that  moved  her.  It  was  a 
long  time  since  she  had  spoken  words  that  had  so  kind  a 
sound  to  Oliver,  and  he  advanced  at  once  upon  them  : 

"  Come,  walk  over  to  Hoy's,  and  see  what  llandy's  do- 
ing." 

"I'll  walk  with  you,"  she  said,  "  but  not  up  there." 

Accordingly  they  went  down  the  road  toward  Brighton, 
and  Oliver  held  the  hand'that  wore  the  ring,  and  said  how 
strange  it  was  that  she  could  make  him  so  happy,  or  so 
wretched  by  a  word.  That  if,  any  morning  he  went  out  in- 
to the  fields,  and  could  think  of  any  pleasant  thing  that  she 
had  spoken — or  even  a  pleasant  look,  though  she  said  noth- 
ing to  him,  it  satisfied  him  for  all  day.  Sometimes  he 
thought  if  she  could  once  see  how  it  was,  she  would  never 
let  him  go  without  making  a  sign  that  would  cost  her  noth- 
ing, and  yet  be  worth  so  much  to  him. 

Sally  replied.  She  called  him  foolish,  silly  ;  said  that, 
as  long  as  he  knew  she  was  his  wife,  why  did  not'that  con- 

11* 


250  PETER   CARRADINE. 

tent  him  1  But,  nevertheless,  it  pleased  her  to  see  that  he 
was  in  earnest,  that  he  felt  all  this.  To  know  that  he  did 
depend  upon  her  precisely  as  he  said.  Incapahle  as  they 
both  seemed  to  be  of  any  nobleness  of  action,  the  very  name 
and  words  and  signs  of  love  could  yet  control  them. 

As  she  spoke,  Oliver  recognized  in  her  countenance  and 
manner  the  signs  by  which  he  first  had  dared  to  hope  that 
he  might  win  the  Elder's  daughter — and  he  was  now  so  au- 
dacious as  even  to  imagine  that  possibly,  before  this  walk 
was  ended,  he  might  persuade  her  to  go  home  with  him  to  a 
confession.  He  had  his  special  reasons  for  wishing  that  the 
acknowledgment  and  reconciliation  might  be  made  at  once. 

As  they  walked  along  the  road,  a  person  approached  from 
the  opposite  direction,  driving  at  a  rapid  pace,  which  was 
slackened  as  he  drew  near.  From  a  distance  he  had  sus- 
pected that  the  errand  on  which  he  came  might  take  him  no 
farther  than  the  wood  on  whose  edge  they  lingered. 

The  man  was  a  constable  from  Brighton,  with  an  order 
for  the  arrest  of  Oliver  Savage  ;  and  he  was  no  stranger  to 
either  Sally  or  Oliver.  He  had  often  dined  and  supped  at 
Elder  Green's,  as  he  went  to  and  fro  in  his  errands  about 
the  county,  and  he  knew  the  Elder's  pretty  daughter.  And 
now,  when  he  saw  this  pair  together,  it  puzzled  him  to  de- 
cide how  he  should  manage  the  business.  A  moment's  re- 
flection, and  he  had  thus  decided  the  matter — "  Oliver  is  a 
vain,  foolish  scamp.  If  there's  anything  going  on  between 
them  two,  the  sooner  it's  ended  the  better."  So  he  jumped 
from  his  buggy,  laid  his  hand  on  Oliver's  shoulder,  and 
showed  him  a  warrant  for  his  arrest. 

Oliver  took  it,  glanced  at  it,  crumpled  it  in  his  hand,  and 
seemed  undecided  whether  he  should  fight  or  run  away: 
But  he  might  as  well  have  attempted  one  thing  as  the  other, 
under  the  band  that  was  upon  him,  the  iron  hand  of  the  law, 
so  well  represented  by  the  constable's  strong  grasp. 

"  What's  this  ?"  asked  Sally,  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Only  a  little  business  I  want  to  see  Oliver  about  down 
at  Brighton,  Miss,"  said  the  man. 

"  What  is  it,  Oliver  ?"  she  demanded,  turning  to  him. 

The  constable  stood  back  a  step,  and  surveyed  the  two. 

"  It's  nothing,"  said  he.     "  I  won't  go.   There — I  won't." 

"  Oh,  none  of  that,  my  lark.     The  easier  you  go,  I  should 


A   FINANCIAL   CRISIS.  251 

say,  the  better  for  you.  And  the  quicker  too.  Come  now, 
get  in." 

"  Wait  a  minute  !"  exclaimed  Sally,  very  pale,  and  very 
frightened.  "  I  don't  understand  it— and  I  must,  or  how 
can  I  do  anything  ?" 

"  It  isn't  anything,"  said  Oliver,  struggling  between  his 
shame  and  the  hope  that  she  would  really  rescue  him. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  taken  off  by  the  constable,"  said 
she,  "  that's  not  for  nothing.  If  he  won't  speak,  you  can 
tell  me,  Mr.  Howl.  What's  it  for  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  he  ;  "I  don't  know  but  I  might,  if 
the  young  man  is  willing." 

"  I've  a  right  to  know,"  she  assured  him. 

"  Oh,  that  alters  the  case,"  replied  he,  looking  from  the 
boy  to  the  girl ;  "  he's  been  borrying  the  dust  down  there 
on  false  pretences,  that's  all ;  them  he  got  it  of  think  it's 
time  to  look  after  their  money.  He  hasn't  done  the  fair 
thing — and  then  he  took  to  being  uppish  about  it — so  they 
wouldn't  stand  it.  That's  the  business,  for  short." 

"  Who  did  ho  borrow  of  '(" 

"  Don't  tell  her,"  exclaimed  Oliver.  "  It's  nobody's  bus- 
iness." 

"  Well,"  said  she  ;  before  she  spoke  this  word  she  had 
put  forth  her  hand,  as  if  to  arrest  the  constable — she  strug- 
gled hard  to  speak,  and  to  speak  seemed  for  a  moment  im- 
possible. Now  she  added,  "  I  don't  want  to  know.  How 
much  is  the  money  ?" 

"  Fifty  dollars,  ma'am." 

"  Must  he  go  to  Brighton  ?" 

"Why,  if  I  could  get  my  money — " 

"  He  is  working  for  my  father,  and  all  the  hands  are 
needed — "  She  made  this  statement,  but  saw  in  a  moment 
that  it  was  not  going  to  avail ;  and  also  that  the  constable 
suspected  that  there  might  be  a  weightier  cause  for  her  anx- 
iety. 

"  Can't  you  pay  the  money1?"  she  asked  Oliver. 

"  Why — no — not  to-night.  No  !  I  haven't  got  it  by  me, 
and  that's  true.  I'd  be  glad  to  send  it,  but  I  haven't  got  it 
handy." 

"  Have  you  got  it  anywhere  ?" 

Some  sense  of  the  figure  he  was  making  before  Mr.  Kowl 
seemed  to  present  itself  to  Oliver  ;  he  looked  at  Sally  as  if 


252  PETER     CAURADINE. 

about  to  question  her  right  thus  to  interrogate  him,  but  con- 
cluded to  reply  frankly, 

"  No,  not  that  much.  I  haven't  !  I've  only  five  dollars 
in  hand." 

"  If  the  money  is  sent  you  before  to-morrow  night,  will 
that  do  ?"  said  Sarah  to  Mr.  Howl. 

"He  ought  to  go  with  me,"  answered  Howl,  doubtfully. 

"  But  will  it  do  ?  Can  you  let  him  off,  though  he  don't 
deserve  it  ?" 

"  Before  to-morrow  night ;  sure  1" 

"  Yes,  sure." 

"  I  might,  if  you're  anxious  ;"  again  the  constable  seemed 
endeavoring  to  satisfy  himself  what  the  relation  between 
these  two  might  be,  but  he  could  not  understand  it — so  fool- 
ish and  so  abashed,  in  spite  of  his  show  of  defiance,  seemed 
Oliver — so  imperious,  and  angry,  and  resolute  the  Elder's 
daughter.  It  seemed  to  be  out  of  no  tenderness  or  regard 
for  him  that  she  was  thus  interfering  between  the  law  and 
Oliver. 

"  You  shall  have  the  money  to-morrow,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  Oliver,"  said  the  constable,  releasing  the  young 
man  from  his  grasp  now,  for  the  first  time,  "  I'm  glad  you've 
got  so  kind  a  friend.  I  hope  you'll  try  to  deserve  it."  Then 
he  turned  to  Sally.  "  I'll  keep  your  secret,  ma'am.  If 
you're  willing  to  pay  fifty  dollars  for  him,  that's  your  look 
out,  not  mine,  understand." 

And  he  turned  from  the  pair,  got  into  his  buggy,  and 
drove  away.  He  had  no  sooner  left  them  than  Sally  turned 
towards  Oliver, 

"  Walk  on,"  said  she. 

But  he  would  have  remained  to  excuse  himself ;  to  ex- 
plain ;  to  devise  some  plan  ;  at  least  to  hear  what  she  would 
say.  She  would  say  nothing,  but  repeated  : 

"  Walk  on.  Hurry.  I  want  to  be  left  alone.  I've  seen 
enough  of  you  !"  She  said  it  with  a  spirit  which  he  did  not 
care  to  question.  So  he  went  on  obediently. 

Then  she  sat  down  by  the  roadside,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wood,  and  thought  she  should  conclude  on  what  was  best  to 
be  done.  But  the  first  moments  of  thinking  wrought  a 
powerful  change  in  her ;  the  strength  she  had  seemed  to 
possess  quite  failed  her,  she  hid  her  face  and  gave  way  to  a 
passionate  flood  of  tears. 


A.  FINANCIAL    CRISIS.  253 

When  Oliver  had  left  her,  he  did  not  turn  back  again. 
Indeed,  the  further  he  went  the  less  disposed  he  felt  to  re- 
turn. He  feared  to  hear  what  Sally  might  say  when  she 
should  begin  to  speak.  And  she  had  promised  to  settle 
that  claim  with  the  constable  ;  so  he  was  secure,  for  anything 
she  undertook  he  knew  would  be  performed.  Much  trouble 
the  recollection  of  that  debt  had  occasioned  him  ;  but  now  it 
was  all  right ;  and  he  seemed  to  be  born  to  good  luck ! 
After  to-morrow  he  could  praise  her  for  what  she  had  done, 
and  he  was  not  afraid.  Only  for  the  present  he  was  glad  to 
walk  on  according  to  her  bidding. 

It  seemed  as  if  that  flood  of  tears  to  which  the  poor  girl 
yielded  were  exhaustless.  But  if  Oliver  had  retraced  his 
steps  in  ten  minutes  he  would  have  appreciated  the  truth 
of  the  sage  observation,  "  It  isn't  the  lightning  we  are  afraid 
of — but  it's  the  thunder  that  does  it !"  And  he  would  in 
like  manner  have  acknowledged. 

He  would  have  seen  Sally  sitting  erect  entangling  herself 
among  devices — prompt  to  act  with  necessity  ;  avoiding  a 
too  close"  observation  of  what  was  past  help.  There  was  but 
one  way  by  which  the  promise  she  had  given  could  be  ful- 
filled. She  knew  that  her  father  had  money  in  bank  where- 
with to  pay  the  workmen.  She  would  not  ask  him  for  the 
sum  she  needed — she  could  better  own  that  she  had  taken 
it,  when  he  should  discover  his  loss.  She  had  ten  dollars 
of  her  own — Oliver  had  five.  When  she  had  paid  the  con- 
stable, she  would  let  her  father  know  that  she  had  saved 
Oliver  and  the  general  body  of  Christians  from  disgrace  ; 
and  if  he  took  it  well,  perhaps  she  might  then  acknowledge 
still  farther  ! 

This,  then,  was  the  plan  in  which  finally  she  rested  ;  then, 
for  it  was  getting  dark,  she  arose  and  followed  Oliver. 

But  she  saw  no  more  of  him  that  night.  And  as  in  these 
days  every  member  of  the  family  was  up  before  daybreak, 
so  by  candle-light  they  were  ready  to  retire.  When  she 
went  in  she  found  that  Huldah  was  the  only  one  astir,  and 
their  talk  was  brief.  Ten  minutes  after  Sally  entered  the 
house  the  only  sound  to  be  heard  therein  was  the  sing- 
ing of  the  cricket  on  the  kitchen  hearth. 


254  PETER    CARKADINE. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


THE      DESPERATE      REMEDY. 

ELDER.  GREEN  was  the  most  careful  of  men  in  keeping  hia 
accounts.  During  all  his  years  of  farming  and  house-man- 
agement, he  had  made  record  of  every  item  of  expense  ;  he 
had  his  gains  and  losses  marshalled  on  the  pages  of  these 
books  in  such  order  that,  at  any  moment  he  could  tell  pre- 
cisely "  where  he  stood." 

Perhaps  the  practice  had  helped  to  render  him  a  trifle 
more  worldly-wise  and  prudent  than  he  might  else  have 
been  ;  perhaps  it  had  oftentimes  impeded  his  generous  im- 
pulses, and,  as  year  by  year  went  on,  helped  to  the  forma- 
tion of  that  disposition  which  the  neighbors  sometimes  said 
was  "  tight  as  the  bark  of  a  tree." 

For  the  past  five  or  six  years,  Sally  had  been  her  father's 
book-keeper ;  and  she  could  compute  interest  and  foot  up 
columns,  as  readily  and  neatly,  he  affirmed,  as  any  man  in 
Brighton.  Perhaps  he  was  mistaken  in  this,  but  he  was 
very  proud  of  her  skill  and  quickness,  and  not  without 
cause. 

It  would  be  easy,  therefore,  easier  for  her  than  for  any 
other  person,  to  supply  herself  at  any  time  when  the  money 
box  was  full — as  was  the  case  at  present — though  she  was 
aware  that  the  abstraction  would  be  known  at  once — for 
though  he  trusted  his  accounts  to  her  keeping,  they  were  all 
daily  under  his  supervision. 

Sally  saw  Oliver  before  breakfast — he  had  gone  to  the 
farm  to  harness  the  horses,  and  she  followed  him  with  a  bas- 
ket, to  hunt,  for  eggs  in  the  hidden  nest.  To  call  him  to 
breakfast  also,  as  her  mother  advised,  when  she  returned 
from  the  egg-hunt. 


THE    DESPERATE   REMEDY.  255 

"  I  am  going  to  send  the  money  to  town  this  morning," 
said  she  ;  "  let  me  have  the  five." 

But  the  "  five  "  was  as  remote  as  the  fifty.  He  had  made 
a  mistake,  he  said  ;  he  forgot,  but  he  had  given  the  money, 
all  he  had,  to  his  mother,  when  he  came  away  from  home. 
For  a  moment  she  seemed  angry,  and  like  to  demonstrate 
the  hot  emotion,  but  it  was  not  demonstrated ;  she  merely 
said,  in  a  tone  that  sent  a  chill  over  him : 

"  I  expected  as  much.  I'm  very  glad  you  gave  it  to  your 
mother." 

She  had  been  thinking  all  night  of  the  divorce  she  had 
chanced  to  threaten,  and  was  not  disposed  to  think  more 
kindly  of  him  now  that  she  stood  before  him.  Not  that  the 
coarse  gray  blouse  and  the  faded  blue  cotton  pantaloons 
abated  so  much  from  his  fascinating  power.  She  had  not 
been  won  to  marry  him  by  any  exaggerated  opinion  of  his 
noble  qualities,  still,  that  he  was  lacking  in  them  all,  even 
to  her  apprehension,  did  not  help  the  matter  any. 

He  went  on  harnessing  the  horses,  thinking  of  Australia  ; 
but  when  he  drove  them  from  the  barn,  and  looked  over  the 
beautiful  farm-land,  and  made  some  rough  estimate  of  the 
value  of  this  year's  crops,  he  took  another  and  less  desper- 
ate view  of  the  case. 


It  was  yet  quite  early  in  the  morning  when  Sally  went 
up  to  old  Samuel  Roy's. 

As  she  walked  through  the  lane,  she  heard  Miranda  sing- 
ing. Contrary  to  her  mood  as  the  effort  might  seem,  she 
broke  out  into  the  familiar  strain,  and  so  came  singing  to 
the  kitchen  door. 

Miranda  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  bushels  of 
peas  around  her,  which  she  was  shelling  in  order  to  dry. 
For  a  moment  Sally  seemed  to  be  dismayed,  but  the  favor 
she  came  to  ask  must  be  granted,  no  matter  what  stood  in 
the  way.  So  she  said,  answering  Randy's  salutation,  speak- 
ing in  a  dictatorial  way,  not  new  or  strange,  and  so  modified 
as  to  be  less  offensive  than  usual : 

"  I  am  going  to  take  your  place  there — you  must  go  to 
town  for  me." 


256  PETER    CARRADINK. 

"  Ten  bushels,"  was  the  answer.  "  What's  the  matter  at 
Brighton  ?" 

"  Nothing's  the  matter  at  Brighton.  But  something's  the 
matter  at  Martindale,  or  I  wouldn't  be  up  here  giving  my 
orders." 

"  How  pale  you  look.  Are  you  sick,  Sally — what's  hap- 
pened ?" 

.  "  Nonsense.  Don't  ask  any  questions.  I've  a  secret,  and 
I'm  going  to  keep  it.  Understand  ?  Is  the  horse  in  the 
stable  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  heard  father  say" 

"Randy,  go  harness  him." 

"  You  scare  me,"  said  Randy,  getting  up  and  walking  out 
from  among  the  heaps  of  podded  peas.  And  she  came  and 
took  Sally's  hand,  and  said,  "  It's  burning  hot." 

"  I  haven't  slept  much.  I  don't  feel  very  well.  Does 
that  satisfy  you  ?  Let  that  be  the  end  of  it.  I  shall  be  well 
enough  when  I  hear  the  horse  clattering  down  the  lane,  and 
know  you  are  actually  on  your  way  to  Brighton  with  your 
mouth  shut." 

x  "  I'll  go,"  said  Randy.     "  Peas  or  no  peas  I'll  do  your 
bidding.     You  wouldn't  ask  it  for  the  sake  of  fooling." 

Then  Sally  threw  her  bonnet  on  the  table,  and  set  to 
work  in  Miranda's  place. 

"  Get  ready  quick,"  said  she,  "  for  there's  no  time  to 
waste.  Though  it  isn't  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  be  sure 
— only  an  affair  of  my  own — a  piece  of  business.  So  don't 
worry,  my  dear,  good  angel." 

Randy  saw  that  action,  not  words,  was  wanted  of  her  ; 
in  the  first  place  she  went  to  the  stable  and  harnessed  the 
horse,  then,  returning,  dressed  herself.  Half  an  hour,  and 
she  was  ready. 

Then  she  came  to  Sally  Green. 

"Now,  what  more?"  she  asked.  "Give  your  orders. 
I'll  trust  you  that  you  won't  sent  me  on  a  fool's  errand." 

Sally  took  a  little  roll  from  her  bosom.  It  was  sealed,  and 
had  the  address,  "  Mr.  Rowl,  constable,  Archer  street, 
Brighton." 

"  All  you  have  to  do,"  said  she,  "  is  to  go  and  find  him. 
You  know  Mr.  Rowl  1" 

"  Yes,  I  know  him.     Give  him  this  ?" 

"  And  if  he  isn't  there  you  might  wait   a  little,  maybe, 


THE    DESPERATE   REMEDY.  257 

till  he  came.  Because — because — I  shall  be  anxious,  very 
anxious,  to  know  if  he  gets  it.  I'll  tell  you — I  saw  him  yes- 
terday, and  I  promised  he  should  have  it — it  is  something 
that  belongs  to  him.  It's  money — it's  fifty  dollars — I  told 
him  I'd  send  to-day.  But  I  couldn't  go  myself — all  the 
horses — I  couldn't  eend  anybody  either.  Nobody  but  you, 
Handy  !" 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  she,  "  if  it's  all  right,  Sally,  it's  a  pity 
if  I  couldn't  serve  you  a  good  turn.  If  I  find  him  shortly, 
you'll  have  me  back  again  before  noon.  But  I  shall  have 
time  about  the  peas  too  ;  you  needn't  mind." 

"  I  shall  stay,"  said  Sally.  "  Once  in  a  while  I  can  do  as 
I  choose,  and  I  choose  to  stay.  You  needn't  stop  at  the 
house.  If  you  see  anybody,  though,  you  may  say  I'm  help- 
ing you.  For,  of  course,  there'll  be  a  wondering  what's  be- 
come of  me.  It's  a  plague  that  one  can't  breathe  without 
asking  leave  of  somebody.  How  far  is  it  to  Jericho,  I  won- 
der ?" 

"  They're  so  tender  of  you,  Sally.  If  they  didn't  love  you 
so,  they  wouldn't  be  so  careful,"  answered  Randy,  with  a 
gentler  voice  than  usual. 

Will  any  woman  look  into  the  heart  of  Sally  as  she  sits 
there  in  the  silent  little  kitchen,  surrounded  by  the  tokens 
of  Roy's  life  and  Randy's  ;  there,  where  the  spirit  of  minis- 
ter Collamer  was  doubtless  not  long  ago  invoked  ? 

Now  that  this  business  is  thus  far  accomplished,  she  can 
breathe.  But  to  a  better  purpose,  one  would  think,  she 
might  conclude  the  whole  matter  by  ceasing  to  breathe  for- 
ever. So  darkly  has  she  involved  herself!  So  impossible 
seems  to  be  the  uttermost  extrication  ! 

Ah  !  no  wonder,  she  thinks,  she  has  been  anxious  and  ex- 
pecting— full  of  unhappy  presentiment ;  not  daring  to  trust 
the  man  whom  she  has  dared  to  marry  !  It  was  to  save  him, 
she  said,  but  how  incompetent  did  she  feel  for  the  work  !  If 
he  was  yet  to  be  saved,  it  was  not  by  a  woman.  And  yet, 
did  she  pity  him.  If  her  father  but  knew  all !  Or  if.  she 
had  any  fortune  of  her  own  which  she  might  this  day  com- 
mand— yes,  she  would  go  with  Oliver  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth — to  Australia — to  Greenland — to  death ! 

And  yet  would  she  ?  Yes,  she  seriously  concluded  ;  for 
if  she  had  him  alone,  away  from  old  companions,  she  and  he 
together,  he  might  be  kept  from  harm.  She  pitied  him. 


258  PETER   CARRADINE. 

She  dared  not  think  now  of  divorce.  She  was  sure  that  he 
loved  her.  And  a  woman  who  is  loved  can  forgive  so  much  ! 
Alas,  poor  girl,  that  she  must  argue  thus  at  random,  and 
prove  all  her  conclusions  to  be  so  inconsequential ! 

Samuel  Roy  came  in  before  noon,  as  moment  by  moment 
she  had  expected  he  would  do,  and  he  was  greatly  surprised 
to  hear  what  Sally  had  to  tell  him  by  way  of  accounting  for 
Miranda's  absence  and  her  presence  in  the  house.  Then 
the  old  man  sat  down  to  help  her,  though  he  had  come  in  to 
rest.  And  she  inquired  after  his  rheumatism,  and  he  told 
her  the  location  and  duration  of  his  aches  and  pains,  and 
made  his  resignation  beautiful,  as  it  came  up  in  contrast 
with  his  ugly  trouble. 

Instead  of  arresting  the  sad  train  of  her  thoughts,  his  pre- 
sence and  conversation  seemed  designed  only  to  furnish  it 
with  new  and  more  potent  illustration.  As  he  held  Miranda's 
virtues  up  to  view,  bitter,  self-reproaching,  unimpaired  by 
self-justification,  was  the  secret  response,  which  her  constant 
affirmation  to  his  ceaseless  talk  did  not  hinder  in  the  least. 


THE  COURAGE   OF — LOVE.  259 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE      0  O  TJ  B  A  &  E      OF LOVE. 

PROBABLY  Elder  Green  could  never  in  his  life  know  a 
surprise  of  a  domestic  character  so  great  as  that  which  met 
him  in  the  little  room  he  called  his  office,  across  whose 
threshold  few  persons  besides  the  women  of  his  family  ever 
passed. 

It  was  a  grim,  sad-looking  place.  The  floor  was  painted 
a  dull  gray,  likewise  the  window-frame  and  door — and  the 
walls  were  very  white,  for  Huldah  whitewashed  twice  a 
year,  through  all  frequented  parts  of  her  house  ;  experience 
having  taught  her  that  no  one  could  be  hired  to  serve  her 
as  she  served  herself.  At  one  end  of  the  room  stood  the 
high  red  desk — by  its  side  a  table.  Here  Sally  sat,  when 
at  work  with  her  father,  casting  up  accounts  ;  over  the  red 
table  hung  a  portrait  of  Elder  Green,  which  looked  as  if  he 
might  have  painted  it  himself,  with  suggestions  from  his 
mother.  On  Sally's  table  lay  a  Bible,  and  the  true  char- 
acter of  that  sacred  volume  was  about  as  clearly  evident  to 
Sally  as  the  true  character  of  the  represented  Man  was  to 
the  Elder. 

He  and  Sally  had  come  into  the  office  shortly  after  her 
return  home  from  Roy's,  and  they  were  now  to  look  over 
the  accounts,  which  had  been  neglected  for  the  past  two 
or  three  days.  They  had  been  at  work  thus  perhaps  half 
an  hour,  when  the  Elder  opened  the  secret  drawer  of  his 
desk  and  took  out  a  pocket-book,  whose  contents  he  pro- 
ceeded to  count  over. 

At  the  moment  he  did  so,  his  daughter  seemed  seized  by 
some  uncontrollable  emotion.  She  suddenly  laid  the  blot- 
ter across  the  ledger — closed  it,  and  seemed  about  to  rise 
from  her  place  ;  then  she  re-opened  the  book  and  said  to 


260  PETER   CARRADINE. 

herself,  "  Be  still !"  and  clasped  her  hands  to  control  the 
trembling  that  seemed  uncontrollable.  She  would  command 
this  moment  if  she  died  in  the  struggle.  It  was  with  such 
resolution  that  she  came  into  the  office  ;  with  such  purpose 
she  now  remained  there.  And  her  father  counted  his 
money.  Long  he  was  about  it.  Twice  he  fingered  every 
bill — he  could  not  believe  what  seemed  so  perfectly  clear 
that  of  the  bills  he  put  away  last  night  some  were  now  miss 
ing. 

"  Strange,"  said  he ;  "  very  strange,"  he  said  again. 
Sally  looked  up  ;  her  eyes  met  his  ;  how  steady  her  gaze  in- 
stantly became,  almost  fixed,  one  might  deem  it.  She  did 
not  ask  him,  as  she  meant  to  do,  what  the  trouble  was. 
While  attempting  to  command  her  voice,  he  said,  in  a  mys- 
terious undertone  : 

'  Sally — here's  something  wrong  !" 

'  Wrong  !    What  father  ?" 
'  Money  gone — forty  dollars." 
'  Forty  dollars.     Are  you  sure  7" 

'  I  put  it  in  here  last  night.  Two  hundred  and  forty. 
Here's  my  two  hundred — but  where's  the  forty  ?" 

"  Let  me  count  it,  father  ?" 

So  he  gave  her  the  package,  and  she  counted  the  bills 
over,  one  by  one.  Then  she  gave  the  bundle  back  to 
him. 

"  How  much,  Sally  ?" 

"  Two  hundred." 

"  Then — I've  been  robbed  !" 

"  Robbed,  father  !  It  couldn't  be."  The  girl's  heart 
seemed  to  die  within  her  as  she  spoke  ;  she  knew  the  symp- 
toms she  now  witnessed  in  her  father.  He  had  been  rob- 
bed— robbery  was  a  crime — "  be  just,  and  fear  not,"  he  was 
saying  to  himself,  and  he  would  make  his  own  application  of 
that  famous  motto. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  next 
room  sounded  with  awful  distinctness  in  this.  Then  said 
he: 

"  I  can't  see  bow — but  it  must  be.  I  never  lost  a  dollar 
through  carelessness  in  my  life.  I  put  that  money  up — it's 
gone.  Nobody  but  you,  Sally,  know  where  I  kept  my 
pocket-book.  You  and  your  mother,  of  course.  I  wonder 
where  your  mother  is." 


THE   COURAGE    OF LOVE.  261 

He  seemed  about  to  go  for  her,  but  Sally  started  up  and 
laid  her  hand  on  him. 

"  Don't  call  her.  I'm  your  child,  not  hers  !  Don't  go, 
father.  I  know  about  the  money.  I  expected  to  tell  you. 
But  it's  the  first  time  I  ever  borrowed  of  you  without  your 
leave." 

"Borrowed!    You!" 

"  Yes — you  can  take  it  out  of  my  portion  !  I  had  to  have 
the  money.  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  not  believe  that 
unless  I  could  tell  you  the  whole,  and  I  couldn't  tell  the 
whole.  So  I  took  the  money.  And  I  paid  it  out  again  !  I 
haven't  got  a  dollar  of  it  left.  And  you  must  give  me  so 
much  the  less  than  you  meant  to  do,  sometime.  That's  all, 
father." 

"  Where's  your  mother?"  exclaimed  the  Elder,  as  much 
frightened  as  amazed  ;  he  seemed  to  think  that  possibly  the 
earth  was  about  to  open,  or  Heaven  about  to  fall — he  could 
not  have  been  much  more  astonished  in  either  case. 

"  I  am  enough  for  this  !"  said  she.  "  We  don't  need 
mother.  It's  enough  for  me  to  bear,  and  you.  She  couldn't 
help  you  or  me.  S.he  knows  nothing  about  it.  And  that's 
all.  I've  spent  the  money ;  if  you  was  a  poorer  man, 
maybe  I'd  not  feel  so  much,  for  it's  the  rich  men  who  lose 
their  money  and  care  most.  I  see  that." 

Then  said  Elder  Green  : 

"  Hush,  daughter.  Hush,  Sally.  I  never  missed  a  shil- 
ling before  that  you  couldn't  account  for  in  a  different  way 
from  this.  Don't  speak  so  to  your  father.  You  never  gave 
me  reason  yet  to  think  my  girl  was  going  on  in  by  and  for- 
bidden paths.  I  believe  in  you,  Sally.  You've  owned  to  it, 
when  you  might  have  denied  as  easy,  if  that  had  been  your 
mind — and  likely  I  never  would  have  known.  I'll  trust 
you  !  I  never  had  a  secret  from  your  mother  yet — as  good 
and  kind  to  you  as  ever  mother  was.  Call  her  yours  !  And 
if  you  say  here  to  me,  your  father,  with  your  hand  on  that 
Bible,  that  all  you've  done  has  been  clear  and  upright,  noth- 
ing to  be  ashamed  for,  only  somehow  it  can't  be  known — 
I'll  trust  my  own  daughter,  who  has  grown  up  in  my  sight — 
and  has  never  gone  out  of  my  heart,  and  never  will." 

She  said,  but  without  laying  her  hand  upon  the  Bible  : 

"  You  may  trust  me,  father." 

"It  is  enough,"  returned  the  Elder  :  and  he  tied  up  the 


262  PETER   CARRADINE. 

pocket-book,  and  laid  it  in  its  place,  feeling  sad  and  yet  he- 
roical ;  and  trusting  his  daughter  !  Afraid,  indeed,  to  doubt 
her,  and,  did  he  but  know  it,  shrinking  from  the  knowledge 
which  he  knew  not  but  he  might  have  had,  had  he  persisted 
in  demanding  it. 

For  Sally,  she  turned  away  from  the  old  red  desk  and 
went  quickly  from  the  room,  and  out  under  the"  apple  trees, 
breathing  as  if  this  mortal  element  had  some  destroying 
power  in  it. 

Her  main  thought  was  not  of  self-gratulation  that  she  had 
so  well  managed  this  sad  business ;   nor  of  pleasure,  that , 
her  father  had  such  confidence  in  her  that  he  was  willing  to 
pass  lightly  an  offence  against  all  his  notions  of  economy  and 
prudence. 

Oliver's  curiosity,  meanwhile,  was  consuming  him.  From 
the  field  on  the  upland,  where  he  was  at  work,  he  had  seen 
Sally  going  to  Samuel  Roy's  ;  had  seen  Randy,  mounted  on 
horseback,  riding  down  the  road.  Three  hours  later,  he 
saw  her  return.  And  he  saw  when  Sally  come  back  to  her 
father's  house.  He  conjectured  many  things — his  chief 
doubt  was  as  to  what  would  pass  between  himself  and  Sally 
when  they  met  again.  He  would  be  glad  to  defer  the  meet- 
ing if  he  might.  Taking  extra  steps  to  secure  this  point, 
approaching  the  house  through  the  great  orchard,  under 
those  old  wide-branching  trees,  he  met  her. 

And  now  would  not  poor  love — love  that  is  so  constant 
under  provocation,  so  faithful  through  unworthiness,  so  brave 
and  generous  in  danger — would  not  love,  the  holy  and  the 
strong,  take  this  case  and  manage  it? 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  her,  Oliver's  first  purpose  was 
to  retreat,  but  he  saw  it  was  too  late.  He  saw  also  how  pale 
she  was,  and  that  nothing  could  be  farther  from  her  face 
than  smiles,  and  he  said  : 

"  I  have  made  you  trouble,  Sally.   I  wish  I  was  dead." 

To  which  she  did  not  reply — she  was  either  too  much  ex- 
cited, too  troubled,  or  too  angry — which  1  he  wondered. 

"  I  don't  know  but  being  married  may  be  mighty  fine  for 
some  ;  but  for  me — " 

"  You  would  have  it !"  she  answered  now,  quickly  enough. 
Nothing  could  rouse  her  so  soon  as  recrimination. 

"  No  ;  this  isn't  what  I'd  have.  Not  by  any  means  ;  it 
isn't  what  I  expected,  either.  I  expected  something  differ- 


THE   COURAGE   OF LOVE.  263 

ent.  If  a  man  marries  a  woman  he  don't  do  it  expecting  to 
be  treated  as  a  knave  from  that  time  on.  If  you  married 
me,  Sally,  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  did  it  for  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell.  Because  I  was  a  fool.  Marry  in  haste  to 
repent  at  leisure.  That  was  it,  I  suppose." 

"  No  ;  you  owned  that  you  loved  me.  And  I  loved  you, 
or  I  never  would  have  asked  you.  But  love  isn't  proof 
against  everything.  I'll  be  off,  maybe,  before  you  expect, 
and  let  you  tear  up  the  certificate,  as  you  threw  away  the 
ring."  * 

"Hush  !"  said  she.  Where  was  her  pride  and  anger? 
She  trembled  before  the  prospect  he  had  so  suddenly  thrown 
open  to  her  view.  He  saw  what  he  had  gained,  and  now, 
would  he  hold  that  vantage  ground  1 

"  Hush  !"  she  repeated,  and  she  showed  him  that  on  the 
marriage  finger  was  the  wedding  ring.  "  I  wear  that,  Oli- 
ver," said  she,  "  because  I  am  your  wife." 

"  Then  if  you  are  my  wife,  treat  me  as  if  I  was  your  hus- 
band." There  was  really  something  like  dignity  and  author- 
ity in  this  demand ;  and  the  heart  of  Sally  revived  as  if 
under  the  influence  of  some  heavenly  breathing. 

"  Let  us  go  down  to  the  other  end  of  the  orchard.  There 
I  can  tell  you  what  I  have  done  for  you  to-day,  ungrateful 
man  !" 

So  he  followed  her — but  a  few  steps  only  she  walked  in 
advance  ;  then  she  came  back  and  took  his  arm,  and  never 
thought  or  cared  if  any  watchful  eyes  should  see  that  she 
walked  thus  beside  him. 

"  Randy  has  served  me  like  a  friend  to-day,"  said  she. 
"  I  went  up  and  asked  her  to  go  to  Brighton,  and  carry 
something  from  me  to  Howl,  and  she  went,  without  any 
questions." 

"Then  you  sent  the  money  !     Where  did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  I  took  it  Oliver — for  your  sake — from  my  father's  pock- 
et-book." 

"  Does  he  know  it  ? 

"  Yes,  he  knows  it !" 

"  But  how  ?  Did  he  give  it  to  you  when  you  asked  him  ? 
That  couldn't  be  exactly." 

"  Why  not  ?  But  I  didn't  try  him.  I  knew  I  could 
make  all  right.  He  trusts  me  so !  I  had  ten  dollars  of  my 


264  PETER   CARRADINE. 

own.  When  he  told  me  he  had  lost  forty  dollars,  I  let  him 
know  that  I  took  it — that  I  had  paid  it  away." 

"  What  did  the  old  man  say  then  1"  asked  Oliver,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  He  said  that,  if  I  would  assure  him  it  was  all  right  and 
honorable,  he  would  not  ask  any  more.  Say  now  that  I  do  not 
love  you  !  Say  now  that  I  don't  treat  you  as  a  wife  should 
do  !  I  could  have  let  you  go  with  the  constable  !" 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  too  proud  for  that,"  said  he.  "  My 
good  name  is  yours." 

"  So  it  is — so  it  is.  And  if  there's  anything  that  could 
break  the  heart  of  Elder  Green — Oliver,  I  was  to  be  the 
saving  of  you,  you  said !  Then  you  must  love  me  better 
than  you  love  anything  else.  It's  love  they  say  is  the 
savior.  But  you  mustn't  give  me  any  more  such  days  as 
this.  I  couldn't  pass  through  many  such  for  the  best  man 
on  earth." 

Of  course  he  promised,  and  was  really  very  grateful  to 
Sally.  And  she  said  : 

"  If  I  couldn't  trust  you,  and  love  you,  what  would  be- 
come of  me  ?  But  as  you  said  just  now,  love  isn't  proof 
against  everything.  Some  day  you  will  have  all  things  in 
your  hands.  I  suppose  I  might  have  married  a  rich  man 
— but  I  chose  you  instead.  But  if  ever  your  face  should 
change  to  me,  or  I  should  come  to  see  that,  in  spite  of 
your  good  looks  and  all  that  we  have  said,  we  should  be  mis- 
taken— " 

He  put  an  end  to  the  misgiving,  at  least  of  her  speech,  by 
a  kiss — and  the  great  argument  seemed  to  have  arrived  at 
its  conclusion. 


THE    NEW   HOME.  265 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


THE      NEW      HOME. 

MIRANDA  went  on  an  errand  for  her  father  one  afternoon, 
to  the  red  farm  house — a  red  farm  house  no  longer.  Hence- 
forth it  must  be  called  the  Hill  Farm  ;  for,  among  all  hill 
farms  round  about,  it  had  now  pre-eminence. 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  at  work,  and  meditating,  as  she  looked 
about  her. 

"  So  !  this  has  got  to  be  one  of  the  big  housens  of  the 
country.  No  more  the  old  place,  than  he's  the  old  man. 
With  the  white  paint  and  green  blinds  and  green  piaz  to  the 
outside,  who  would  ever  know  it  ?  I'm  glad  it's  done  too, 
seeing  as  it  must  be,  for  whatever  it  is  it  ain't  hum  no 
more.  If  't  been  Handy  he'd  in  his  head  there'd  been  no 
such  doings.  No  such  doings  !  We  should  all  a'  stayed  to- 
gether. And  there'd  been  two  sides  to  the  housen,  and 
Randy  would  'a  been  a  helper  !  It  ought  'o  been  Randy, 
o'  good  rights.  I'm  moved  to  think  my  Harry — but  there's 
a  providence  above  us.  And  it's  a  stranger  dropped  out  o' 
the  clouds  as  you  might  say,  for  nobody  knows  her  belong- 
ings." 

For  Mrs.  Johnson  was  still  "  led  to  believe,"  and  held 
fast  by  the  believing,  that  Miss  Fuller  was  in  the  secret, 
and  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  new  work  that  was  so  hard  to 
contemplate — this  work  that  cost  so  much  in  money,  so  • 
much  more  in  heart-ache.  Nobody  need  tell  her  that  Mr. 
Carradine  really  approved  all  this  doing  ;  the  vengeance  of 
life-long  habit  was  to  come  yet,  and  he  did  stand  in  fear  of 
it.  Nobody  need  tell  her. 

Thus  was  she  meditating  with  the  most  dismal  satisfac- 

12 


266  PETER    CAREAD1NE. 

tion  when  Miranda  came  to  the  house  for  the  first  time  since 
the  old  school  trouble  with  Mr.  Carradine. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  confused  as  a  simple- 
minded,  honest-hearted  woman  might  be  on  the  sudden  ap- 
pearing of  one  who  had  been  so  intimately  wrought  up  in 
her  secret  thinking.  "  You're  quite  a  stranger.  Sit  ye 
down.  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  I'm  sure,  Randy  Roy.  It's  a 
sight  good  for  sore  eyes." 

"  You're  so  fine  here  I  don't  know's  I  dare,"  replied  Ran- 
dy, looking  round  her  in  surprise. 

"  Try  it.  There's  nothing  like  getting  used  to  a  thing," 
said  Mrs.  Johnson,  sighing — and  she  brought  a  chair  for  her 
guest. 

"  There's  no  great  need  of  my  getting  used  to  any  thing 
in  Carradine's  house,"  said  Randy.  She  took  the  chair, 
however — she  was  Mrs.  Johnson's  guest.  "  I  should  never 
know  the  old  place." 

"  No  more  you  wouldn't  !  Do  you  like  it,  Randy  ?  Does 
it  seem  right  to  you  now,  such  fixings  1" 

"  I  don't  know.  It's  right  splendid.  But  how  did't  ever 
happen  ?" 

"  Dear  knows.  But  he's  got  his  reason  to  hand  like  an  an- 
swer out  of  the  catechism.  I  said  to  him  plain  he  was  going 
to  get  married.  He  denies  it,  and  that  he  wouldn't.  Though 
he  don't  do  it  positive  like.  Yet  if  he  was  going  to  be 
married  he  wouldn't  keep  it  from  me  !" 

"  Of  course  not.  And  there's  nobody  like  Miss  Fuller 
he'd  do  all  this  for,  Mrs.  Johnson,"  said  Randy,  speaking 
openly  as  one  may  with  one's  friend. 

"  I  thought  so  myself,"  was  the  answer,  cold,  yet  as  it  al- 
most seemed,  indignant. 

"  I  wish  it  might  happen,"  Randy  added  in  a  heat  of  gen- 
erosity. 

"  You  do  !  for  sure."  Mrs.  Johnson's  pleasure  was  not 
on  the  increase,  and  in  fact  she  had  now  her  doubts  of  Ran- 
dy's sincerity. 

"  Yes,  it's  the  place  for  Miss  Fuller,  and  a  good  place, 
big  and  large." 

"  And  she's  a  good  girl  enough,  but,  Randy,  you've  lost 
the  wit  I  gin  you  credit  for,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  not  now 
so  vexed  as  amazed — "  she's  no  more  like  Peter  Carradine, 
that  girl  !" 


THE    NEW   HOME.  267 

"  In  a  good  many  ways,"  answered  Randy,  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  one  who  has  well  considered  the  point,  "  in  a  good 
many  ways  they  are  as  like  as  two  peas." 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  amazed. 

"  Not  that  they  act  or  speak  alike.  I  don't  mean  that. 
But  see  if  they  ever  quarrel."  A  fine  glow  was  on  Miran- 
da's face  as  she  spoke  thus,  conscious  may  be  of  no  little 
magnanimity. 

"  May  he,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson.  "  But  it  isn't  them  that 
quarrel  that  gets  along  the  worst.  I  know  what  you're  think- 
ing of — but  if  you're  considering  that  he's  a  bad  opinion  of 
you,  I  can  tell  you  what  he  said  in  my  hearing — to  me,  un- 
derstand, with  nobody  by,  and  that  not  a  dreadful  long 
while  back." 

"  No  matter,"  said  Miranda,  with  a  start  and  a  blush. 
"  We're  through  with  our  difficulties,  and  we  won't  have 
another  misunderstanding  long  as  we  live." 

"  It  is  a  matter — and  I'll  tell  you,"  persisted  her  friend, 
who  saw  Randy's  blush  with  a  quickening  suspicion  at  which 
&he  caught  with  desperate  hopefulness,  "  He  said,  I  think 
much  of  Randy  ;  that's  what  he  said — and  I  respect  her — 
she's  a  fine  girl — she's  a  good  woman.  And  as  for  me,  I'll 
never  forget  that  it  was  my  Harry  made  that  trouble 
atwixt  you,  and  who  knows  what  would  'a  happened  but  for 
that !" 

The  question  was  asked  with  another  sigh  that  came  not 
easily  from  Mrs.  Johnson,  for  she  was  not  a  sighing  wo- 
man. 

"  Yes,"  said  Randy,  not  blushing  now,  but  laughing, 
quite  as  much  for  the  relief  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  burdened 
spirit,  as  from  any  excess  of  merriment  on  her  own  part — 
"  and  what'll  you  think  now,  when  I  tell  you  on  the  top  of 
what  you  tell  me,  that  he's  made  father  a  present  of  a  couple 
as  fine  young  bullocks  as  you'll  find  in  his  drove.  And 
that's  what  I  come  up  for,  with  father's  obligations — so 
now,  Mrs.  Johnson  !"  9 

"  Say  it's  you,  and  I'll  never  open  my  mouth  agen, 
whatever  happens,  to  complain.  Say  it's  you,  Randy, 
and — ' ' 

"  And  be  a  liar.  Now  you  wouldn't  have  that.  Any  way, 
you  might  show  me  the  house — for  we're  good  friends  all 
around,  and  mean  to  keep  so  to  the  end  o'  the  chapter — 


268  PETER  CARRADINE. 

though  it's  against  nature,  and  truth,  and  common  sense, 
that  Peter  Carradine  would  fix  a  house  up  in  this  style  for 
Randy  Roy.  What  would  I  do  in  such  a  place  now  !" 

"  What'll  anybody  do  with  all  these  gimcracks  then  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Johnson.  "  There's  the  question.  But  I'll  show 
you  the  place.  He  sent  your  pa  the  bullocks,  did  he  ? 
Well,  I'll  gin  over  guessing  if  he  wasn't  thinking  of  Randy 
as  much  as  anything  for  that." 

"  Like  enough  it  was  a  peace-offering,"  said  Randy.  "If 
it  was  for  anything  else,  you'd  allow  he  must  have  a  poor 
opinion  of  me.  Don't  you  go  to  thinking  anything  so 
foolish." 

"  Come  on,  if  you'll  see  the  housen.  It  can't  do  no  harm. 
And  I  want  you  to  see  how  we're  turned  upside  down.  And 
who'd  ever  a  thought  Peter  Carradine  would  a  set  up  for  a 
show  housen  ?  With  a  fancy  gardener  to  lay  out  a  pleasure 
— of  the  slope,  and  medder  land.  And  making  believe  the 
while  it  was  for  hisself,  as  if  he  cared  the  value  of  a  rush 
for  it — " 

So  it  was  that  Mrs.  Johnson  showed  Randy  about  the 
house  from  garret  to  cellar. 

The  parlor  door  was  locked — but  she  brought  the  key, 
and  threw  the  splendors  of  that  grand  apartment  open  to 
inspection — all  the  marvel  of  the  white  and  gilt  wall  paper, 
the  handsome  carpet,  the  colored  window  shades,  the  various 
ornaments,  engravings,  books  and  vases — what  not  ? 

"  That  room  cost  a  thousand  dollars,  if  it  cost  a  cent," 
said  Mrs.  Johnson.  "  I  haven't  got  anything  to  say.  It's 
none  o'  mine.  But  I  wouldn't  want  a  housen  that  was  too 
good  to  use.  It's  a  kind  of  increasing  as  increases  cares — 
and  that's  agen  Scripture  clear." 

Then  the  china  closet  was  inspected,  and  every  other 
closet.  The  house  was  stocked  as  a  gentleman's  house  should 
be.  Mr.  Carradine  had  hesitated  at  no  expense.  He  want- 
ed his  house  should  compare  well  with  the  establishments 
of  other  gentlemen.  This  was  one  of  the  great  years  of  his 
life,  and  he  intended  the  celebration*  should  become  a  man 
of  his  place  and  ability. 

At  the  end  of  her  exhibition  Mrs.  Johnson  plucked  up  the 
courage  to  say, 

"  When  we're  moved  and  settled,  you'll  find  your  way 
over  the  hill,  I  hope,  once  in  a  while." 


THE    NEW   HOME.  269 

"  Moved  !  over  the  hill !  who  ?  where  ?  what  is  that  ?" 
said  Randy,  betraying  more  amazement  and  doubt  than  she 
would  have  done  had  she  known  with  what  lingering  hope 
Mrs.  Johnson  clung  to  the  notion  that  after  all,  improbable 
though  it  seemed,  Randy  was  the  woman  on  whom  Mr.  Car- 
radine's  eyes  were  fastened,  and  whom  he  meant  to  charm 
into  possession  of  all  this  Hill-farm  splendor. 

"  Don't  you  know,  though  ?  Why,  we're  going  to  leave, 
to  be  sure,  Johnson  and  me.  We're  going  over  t'  the  other 
housen  to  live.  That's  what  we're  going  to  do  !" 

"  The  other  house  ?" 

"  That's  what  I  mean.  The  Bronson  house,  you  know — 
it  ain't  so  very  far  off." 

"  Not  far  at  all.  Going  to  live  in  the  Bronson  house— 
you  and  your  family?  It's  a  nice  place  too.  I  always  liked 
the  Bronson  farm  house,  it  had  a  home  look  always." 

This  was  spoken  out  of  pure  charity.  Miranda  was  as 
surprised  as  she  could  easily  be  made  by  this  intelligence 
which  Mrs.  Johnson  had  conveyed  with  such  painfully  obvi- 
ous difficulty.  Perhaps  the  good  woman  detected  too  much 
sympathy  in  Randy's  voice,  and  she  meant  not  to  be  put  in- 
to the  position  of  one  who  required  condolence,  for  she  said 
quickly, 

"  You'd  never  expect  this  old  housen  to  be  turned  inside 
out  so.  It  beats  all  the  witch  work  ever  I  heard  of  when  I 
was  a  girl  down  east." 

"  But  it's  beautiful  to  see.  I  declare  I  feel  quite  set  up 
by  it." 

"  That's  like  her — if  you  ever  said  that  thing  to  him 
now  !  It's  somebody's  talk  i'  that  fashion  has  set  him  on  to 
such  doings  I  verily  believe.  This  here  kitching  now,  I  de- 
clare if  it's  as  hum  like  as  the  farm  yard  is.  It's  curius, 
some  little  jobs  I've  been  trying  my  best  to  get  done  up 
here  this  ten  year,  oh  yes  !  any  time  !  but  any  time  is  no 
time,  and  they  would  never  a  been  done,  never,  only  now 
there  can't  be  done  enough.  Everything  comes  so  easy, 
understand.  He's  free  enough  of  his  money  let  him  get 
stirred  up  once.  I  spoke  out  my  mind  about  the  Bronson 
place,  and  he  had  things  done  up  to  the  handle.  Anything 
you  say,  Mrs.  Johnson.  Just  name  what  you  want,  .  .  You 
must  go  down,  for  it  do  look  right  neat,  Randy,  and  as  muah 


270  PETER    CARRADINE. 

like  hum  as  this'n  does,  but  for  the  old  turns  and  corners 
I'm  used  to  this  ten  year." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  Randy  said, 

"  There's  a  comfort  in  it  all  though  I'm  beholden  to  say. 
You've  a  witness  to  stand  by  you  all  along.  If  religion  is 
n't  for  wet  weather,  Mrs.  Johnson,  we  don't  need  it  so 
much  when  it's  dry." 

"  That's  the  word  I  needed  !  Thank  you  for  it,  Randy. 
It's  a  poor  profession  that's  only  good  to  sail  by  in  clear 
sailing  weather." 

"  And  you've  put  yours  to  proof  too  many  times.  I  al- 
ways thought  if  any  one  had  found  out  the  worth  of  a  be- 
lief, it  was  sister  Johnson." 

"  Yes,  Randy — you're  right,  you're  right.  Do  you  see 
anything  of  her  though,  nowadays  1"  For  sister  Johnson 
saw  that  Randy  would  soon  be  gone,  and  there  were  words 
yet  to  be  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  Miss  Fuller  ?  Oh,  yes.  I  saw  her  when 
I  was  coming  up  this  way  just  now.  She  was  walking  with 
a  gentleman  I  never  see  before." 

"  She  hasn't  been  up  here  sence  the  first  man  crossed  the 
doorstep  to  go  to  work  on  the  housen.  Yes,  once  she  came, 
and  she  seemed  flurried  for  a  moment  when  she  heerd  the 
goings  on.  I  told  her  Mr.  Carradine  expected  she  would 
take  her  week  here  just  the  same — he  bid  me  tell  her  so — 
he  knew  I  could  make  her  comfortable  as  anybody  in  the 
valley  ;  I'm  repeating  his  own  words  about  it.  But  she  has- 
n't taken  heed  to  that ;  and  she  won't,  mind  you." 

"  You  mustn't  judge  Miss  Fuller — she  isn't  like  the  rest 
of  us,  Mrs.  Johnson." 

"  No,  that  so.  I've  nothing  to  say  agen  Miss  Fuller. 
She's  a  Christian  young  womern,  I  judge,  and  she  behaves 
herself  discreet.  She's  as  civil  to  Johnson  as  e'er  she  was 
to  Mr.  Carradine,  and  I'll  say  that  for  her.  She  caught  him. 
He  can't  help  himself  a'inore  than  a  bird  in  a  bramble — but 
she's  done  it  without  any  of  your  arts." 

"  My  arts,  Mrs.  Johnson  !  "  exclaimed  Randy. 

"  Yours  !  for  sure  who  ever  'cused  Randy  Roy  of  arts  ! 
I  mean  the  girls  that  would  'a  ogled  him  out  of  his  money, 
if  he'd  e'er  gin  'em  a  chance.  It's  my  mind,  though,  when 
all's  said  and  done,  she'll  take  him  (if  you  don't).  I  should 
think  she  must  be  curus  with  all  these  odd  doings — and  see- 


THE    NEW   HOME.  271 

ing  the  loads  of  things  that  have  been  carted  up  from  Brigh- 
ton city.  There's  one  little  room  I  haven't  showed  you  yet, 
and  dasen't.  He  don't  like  to  have  anyone  running  in  there. 
It's  a  room  with  a  big  winder  and  has  a  trellish  for  the 
sweetbrier  fixed  up  to  it.  We  moved  it  to  that  place  the 
first  even  of  her  stay  here,  you  mind.  He  never  forgot  a 
thing  yet.  There's  just  that  one  winder.  It's  a  wonderful 
little  spot.  Some  pictures  in  bright  frames  all  gilt  round, 
and  a  stand  for  books  or  something — and  a  round  table  with 
a  fine  green  cloth  to  the  top  of  it,  and  a  big  easy  chair  that 
cost  thirty-five  dollars  !  And  another  chair,  a  wilier  one, 
that  looks  as  light  and  delicet !  He  made  me  sit  down  on  it, 
when  I  told  him  it  wouldn't  hold  a  body,  but  was  made  for 
a  play  house  like  as  not.  And  that's  somebody's  room  for 
private,  I  reckon.  There  never  was  a  man  thought  o'  more 
things.  What  do  you  think,  Randy  ?" 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  right  sorry  if  he  don't  carry  the  day." 

"  I'd  be  willinger  for  her  than  for  any  one  "but  you. 
'Twould  kill  me  outright  so  be  it  was  the  Elder's  daughter. 
JBut  I'd  be  easy  enough  so  be  it  was  Randy.  And  glad  to 
move  out  of  her  way,  for  the  matter  of  that." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,  Mrs.  Johnson.  You're  a  woman  of 
sense.  He  and  I  would  make  quick  work  of  each  other. 
We  should  destroy  each  other — break  each  other's  hearts. 
I  saw  Miss  Fuller  walking  with  a  gentleman,  I  told  you,  and 
you'd  say,  if  you  saw  the  pretty  sight,  they  were  made  for 
each  other — but  I'd  be  willing  to  bet  she'd  set  fifty  times 
more  value  on  a  man  of  Peter  Carradine's  kind." 

"  May  be,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  so  absorbed  by  the 
thoughts  that  already  possessed  her  she  seemed  incapable 
of  curiosity,  even  in,  reference  to  the  stranger,  of  whom 
Randy  was  making  this  repeated  mention.  She  could  not 
even  wonder  at  Randy's  quiet  conviction  in  reference  to  all 
this  matter. 

But  how  was  it  that  Miranda  held  herself  so  calmly  con- 
fident ? 

She  had  merely  seen  Miss  Fuller  when  now  and  then 
she  came  unsuspecting  into  the  presence  of  Mr.  Carradine. 
Had  merely  heard  her  now  and  then  refer  to  the  man — • 
speak  his  name,  or  repeat  some  wish  of  his  ;  or  had  been 
present  while  her  father  told  the  teacher  of  the  rich  farm- 
er's kind  treatment  of  the  poor  rheumatic,  by  whom  he 


272  PETER   CARRADINE. 

meant  himself.  Gestures  so  slight,  looks  so  fleeting,  voice 
so  changeful,  oh,  ye  betrayers  !  Should  not  Miranda  be 
skilled  in  the  interpretation  ?  Was  not  Senior  Jobson  in 
the  land  of  the  living  ?  Shall  we  not  regard  Champollion  as 
almost  pre-Adamite  ? 

Handy  believed  what  she  said.     Also,  she  understood  her 
oracle,  which  all  prophets  do  not. 


THE  COUSIN  273 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


THE      COUSIU. 

BUT  who  was  this  that  walked  in  Martindale  with  Miss 
Fuller,  and  made  a  spectacle  so  pleasing  to  the  mere  vision, 
according  to  Randy's  report. 

No  other  than  Horatio  Aptomar,  who,  while  attending 
court  at  Brighton,  had  learned,  by  seeming  accident,  of  the 
nearness  of  his  cousin,  and  accordingly  had  sought  her  out, 
having  the  leisure,  first  of  all,  for  that  enterprise.  More- 
over, he  remembered  that  he  had  loved  Mercy  once  ;  be- 
tween that  time  and  now  a  gulf  lay,  but  not  so  wide  that 
he  could  not  discern  the  flowers  that  grew  upon  the  banks  ; 
they*nodded  yet  at  him.  And  he  saw  the  print  of  feet,  made 
by  children  who  had  wandered  hand  in  hand  through  many 
a  happy  year,  under  a  loving  care  that  was  broad  as  the 
heavens,  and  seemed  as  indestructible  ;  but  as  a  scroll  had 
it  been  rolled  away. 

Aptomar  was  a  lawyer  who  had  risen,  and  was  rising,  with 
rapid  steps  in  his  profession.  He  had  great  abilities — and, 
he  had  little  patience. 

He  knew  as  well  as  you  and  all  hard-working,  earnest 
people,  that  for  a  man  to  swing  himself  into  any  permanence 
of  power  on  the  mere  strength  and  agility  that  comes  of  oc- 
casional effort  is  just  as  impossible  as  for  a  clown  to  perform 
the  Blondin  feats  over  Niagara  river. 

He  was  a  person  of  really  extraordinary  powers — of 
powers  wonderfully  varied.  And  his  acquaintance  with 
himself,  was  defined  with  a  clearness  and  exactness  alto- 
gether remarkable.  The  early  expectation  of  his  cousin 
Mercy  was  by  no  means  exaggerated.  He  was  one  of  the 

12* 


274  PETER    CARKADINE. 

few  who  justify  the  promise  of  a  precocious  childhood  in  the 
work  of  after  years. 

A  man  of  elegant  bearing  and  address,  without  the  least 
pretense  to  beauty  of  countenance,  he  exerted  a  subtle  fas- 
cination, which,  unsuspected,  was  usually  beyond  resist- 
ance. It  was  impossible  to  remain  unquickened  in  his 
presence  ;  he  acted  as  a  rare  stimulant  always  on  those  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact,  suggesting  thought,  and  bringing 
one  invariably  to  a  new  appreciation  of — himself.  Nothing 
exceed  his  suavity  of  manner — it  was  the  flattery  which  cer- 
tain minds  can  tolerate  without  fear  of  losing  dignity. 

There  was  nothing  mean  and  servile  in  this  deference,  but 
his  perfect  grace  was  after  all  of  a  serpentine  character ; 
that  of  a  man  who  has  trained  himself  to  glide  through  nar- 
row and  winding  paths,  and  make  his  way  where  a  straight- 
forward purpose  might  find  it  impossible  to  move.  He  had 
an  ambition  that  exceeded  his  apprehensions  or  his  fears, 
and  might  become  diabolical.  Qualities  which  his  mother 
would  have  trained  into  glorious  fruitfulness  and  strength 
had  been  suffered  to  dwindle,  and  the  energy  of  his  ambi- 
tion fostered  other  aims  than  could  have  had  her  blessing. 
All  the  influences  of  school  and  college  life  had  encouraged 
that  ambition  ;  the  spirit  which  SHE  would  have  chastened 
into  harmony  with  the  other  powers  that  influenced  hinuwas 
allowed  full  and  fatal  precedence.  It  could  master  con- 
science— therefore  it  controlled  the  man.  And  clearly^ 
therefore,  he  was  beyond  himself,  and  wholly  in  the  power 
of  the  world.  Whatever  influence  he  should  find  most  fas- 
cinating, would  also  prove  most  potent ;  to  that  he  would 
surrender.  Do  they,  such  rudderless  powers,  beyond  com- 
putation, sail  the  seas  ? 

In  his  profession  he  had  won  great  renown  for  a  man  of 
his  years.  .Over  a  jury  his  influence  was  extraordinary. 
Who  could  suspect,  that  saw  him  in  the  daily  walks  of  life, 
the  fierce,  insatiable  spirit  hidden  in  the  grace  of  a  most  be- 
coming modesty  ?  That  in  secret  hours  he  was  laboring 
unwearied  for  ends  that  to  the  ignorant  would  always  seem 
results  of  a  fortunate  turn,  or  of  a  moment's  stroke  ? 

It  was  a  notable  day  in  his  history  when  he  drove  from 
Brighton  to  Martindale,  and  found  his  cousin  in  the  little 
schoolhouse  from  which  she  had  just  dismissed  her  school. 

In  no  respect  could  such  a  meeting  as  this  be  other  than 


THE  COUSIN.  275 

a  surprise.  Children  had  parted  to  meet  man  and  woman — 
and  what  the  world  had  done  for  them,  what  they  for  them- 
selves had  done,  was  more  intelligible  to  either  than  per- 
haps it  could  be  to  any  other  person  in  the  world.  For 
they  read  the  present  aided  by  the  past. 

Knowing  eyes  discern  the  little  dark-winged  sparrows  in 
the  flocks  of  birds  that  circle  under  the  sombre  sky  of  the 
early  autumn  morning,  around  the  scene  of  the  great  confla- 
gration. What  radiant  bits  of  dazzling  life  as  they  fly  on 
glowing  wings,  as  if  out  of  fairy  land  !  What  shining  floods 
of  music  must  issue  from  those  golden-throated  ones  !  But 
"  common  day  "  shall  give  us  only  the  common  song  from 
the  tiny  dark-winged  sparrows.  The  glory  shall  fade  with 
the  dying  flame  ;  the  sun  himself  cannot  restore  it ;  the  sun 
that  deals  in  verities. 

To  a  moment  of  doubting  observation  on  the  part  of  ei- 
ther, succeeded  quick  recognition.  Then  they  hailed  each 
other  by  name — and  the  silence  of  years  was  forgiven,  if  not 
forgotten.  The  time  was  too  short — too  much  was  to  be 
told  to  allow  any  long  or  special  dwelling  on  that  silence. 
Both  had  been  dealing  earnestly  with  the  affairs  of  their  in- 
dividual life,  and  with  notable  result.  They  stood  in  the 
present,  more  of  the  present  aware  than  of  the  past.  Present 
labor  and  aim  excluded  more  than  acknowledgment  of  a  re- 
membered past ;  of f  happy  and  fearless  childhood  by  the 
ocean  side  ;  and  they  made  haste  to  be  done  with  a  dreary 
orphanage. 

So  the  present  they  explained  to  each  other — in  ways 
that  brought  the  character  of  each  into  relief.  Nothing  did 
they  lack  to-day,  of  hope,  or  of  courage. 

Mercy's  story  was  a  brief  one,  simply  told,  after  her  own 
fashion,  unenlivened  by  a  single  flourish  of  rhetoric,  yet  by 
no  means  a  dull  tale,  since  one  could  so  kindle  at  it  as  did 
the  cousin  walking  by  her  side  ;  for  Mercy  had  led  the  way 
from  the  schoolroom  quickly  after  their  meeting,  as  if  appre- 
hensive of  his  criticism  of  her  official  quarters.  What  kind 
of  criticism  it  would  be  she  foresaw  distinctly.  She  wished 
not  to  hear  it.  His  comment  was, 

"  You  don't  suppose  that  I  shall  leave  you  in  the  woods 
here,  where  I've  found  you,  Mercy  ?"  and  he  turned  to  look 
at  the  schoolhouse  ;  all  the  comment  she  had  anticipated, 
and  endeavored  to  avoid,  condensed  in  that  single  glance, 


276  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"Why  not,  cousin?"  she  asked,  with  a  surprise  in  her 
voice  which  he  understood  as  distinctly  as  she  had  inter- 
preted that  look  ;  "  why  not  ?"  His  face  colored  violently 
at  the  question,  as  if  he  heard  in  it  unlimited  reproaching 
for  the  forge tfulness  of  years. 

She  had  spoken  pleasantly  enough,  but  the  question  stung 
him  ;  and  pleasantly  though  she  continued,  a  fresh  thorn  was 
in  every  word. 

"  I  came  here  for  strength,  for  I  needed  more  than  I  had 
— and  you  must  know  what  rest  I  would  find  among  these 
pleasant  farm  lands  and  these  friendly  people.  Come  with 
me,  and  I  will  introduce  you  to  some  of  them." 

"  No,  not  to-day.  I'm  thinking  of  what  you're  thinking, 
Mercy — you  were  out  of  health  and  these  people  have  given 
you  more  than  I  did." 

"  Why,  how  could  you  give  me  what  they  gave  ?"  laughed 
Mercy,  but  with  embarrassment,  for  she  saw  that  she  had 
wounded  him — his  pride  probably ;  she  knew  well  that 
pride — it  was  a  pride  to  remember.  "  You  didn't  own  Mar- 
tindale,  and  it  took  the  whole  of  this  country  town,  every 
field  of  it,  every  man,  woman  and  child  of  it,  to  perfect  my 
cure." 

"  But  you  might  have  died  here,  Mercy,  and  I  had  been 
no  wiser  for  it.  That's  my  fault,  Mercy.  I've  sinned  a 
good  deal,  but  this,  it  seems  to  me,  is  my  worst  sinning.'' 

"  But  I  have  not  suffered  ;  so  don't  blame  yourself.  If 
you  think  it  was  wrong,  I  forgive  you,"  she  added,  still 
playfully. 

"  You  must  prove  that." 

"  I  shall.  I'll  prove  it  from  this  moment.  You'll  under- 
stand by  the  peace  of  mind  you'll  have  when  you  go  back  to 
your  office." 

"  I  think  the  cure  is  beginning,  for  I  don't  half  believe 
what  you  say — you  weren't  the  worn-out  creature  you  pre- 
tend when  you  came  here.  But  I'll  forgive  you  for  saying 
that,  if  you  will  remember  what  we  were  once  to  each  other. 
In  those  old  times  I  hadn't  a  thought  but  I  wanted  to 
share  with  you.  Mercy,  I  feel  the  old  need  fresh  as  ever." 

"  Then  I  stand  responsible  for  that,  cousin." 

"  You  do  !  you  will !  You  are  a  good  girl,  Mercy.  You're 
what  I've  wanted  all  along,  I  tell  you,  but  I  had  to  see  you 
to  find  it  out.  When  shall  I  come  for  you  ?"  He  hurried 


THE  COUSIN.  277 

on  to  prevent  the  question  that  was  gathering  in  her  eyes, 
and  on  her  lips.  "  There  are  beautiful  lodgings  for  you  in 
Girard  street,  the  best  landlady  in  the  world,  and  a  vicinity 
unequalled  for  entertainment.  You  may  have  art  galleries 
and  public  libraries  the  day  long,  and  the  opera  every  night 
in  the  week,  if  it  please  you.  Fix  on  the  first  day  of  Octo- 
ber, and  I  shall  have  your  rooms  furnished  and  will  come  for 
for  you,  so  that  you  shall  enter  on  possession  at  that  time. 
We  are  opposite  the  park,  too — it  is  a  beautiful  situation. 
You  shall  have  my  German  friend  for  your  professor,  and" — 
he  was  waxing  in  warmth  and  earnestness  with  every  word 
he  spoke,  and  the  earnestness  flashed  from  him,  eyes,  face, 
and  limbs  even,  entering  into  the  expression  of  enthusiasm 
and  resolve  which  any  passer-by  must  have  perceived. 

There  was  a  passer-by  whose  perceptions  were  not  dull — 
he  bowed  to  Mercy,  but  his  eyes  were  on  her  cousin,  the 
stranger  who  was  speaking  to  her  with  so  much  animation. 

"  Who's  that  ?"  asked  Aptomar,  arrested,  it  seemed,  as 
one  by  some  sudden  barrier  in  the  ardor  of  the  chase. 

"  Mr.  Carradine.     A  neighbor." 

"  That  kind  of  man  here  ?  The  first  of  October,  then,  it 
shall  be.  Shall  it,  Mercy  ?  Isn't  this  precisely  what  my 
mother  would  wish  ?  Let  me  please  her  !  I  have  not  been 
as  sure  of  her  approbation  in  a  long  while  as  I  am  now. 
You  don't  know  how  rich  I  am.  At  all  events,  I'm  not  poor. 
And  if  you  insist  on  supporting  yourself,  can't  get  over  your 
old  whim  of  independence,  you  shall  have  all  the  work  you 
want — of  an  agreeable  kind, -too,  I  promise.  There's  enough 
to  be  done,  as  you'll  find  when  you  get  where  the  civilized 
world  lives.  Of  all  things  Mercy  Fuller  a  country  school- 
ma'am  !" 

He  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  Mercy  till  she  blushed. 
A  change  in  her  calm  countenance  that  seemed  to  recall 
him,  for  he  said  in  a  tone  more  decisive,  less  expostulating, 
"  The  first  of  October.  I  won't  say  before  that  time,  unless 
you  will  promise  to  go  with  me  to  the  mountains,  in  Sep- 
tember. I  have  been  invited  to  join  a  party  of  tourists 
then,  and  we  could  steal  for  ourselves  a  day  or  two  for  the 
sea.  I  want  to  get  a  fisherman  to  take  us  out,  as  old  Tom 
used — it  would  give  us  back  to  the  old  life  sooner  than  any- 
thing else.  Say  September,  Mercy." 

"  You're  too  kind,  cousin,"  began  Mercy. 


278  PETER   CARRADINE. 

Aptomar  did  not  like  her  tone  of  voice,  and  he  hindered 
what  she  would  say. 

"  Kind  !  I  want  you — that's  the  amount  of  it.  I'm  self- 
ish. They  say  men  always  are.  Be  you  generous  accord- 
ing to  your  sex !  I  need  my  old  playmate — I  need  my  cou- 
sin, as  I  find  her.  My  old  cousin  !  You  would  bring  back 
my  mother  with  you.  Oh,  how  can  you  know  what  a  life  I 
lead  !  And  I  can't  get  out  of  it.  Come  and  help  make  it 
more  justifiable  to  easy-going  people  who  have  no  ambition^ 
and  don't  know  any  better  than  to  be  as  happy  as  the  days 
are  long." 

There  was  something  so  urgent  in  his  voice,  something  so 
potent  in  the  memory  of  his  mother,  his  mother,  who  in  the 
old  time  said  so  often  that  she  was  always  easy  about  her 
Horatio  if  Mercy  were  but  with  him  in  his  play,  and  in  his 
rovings,  Mercy  might  with  reason  defer  a  decision,  since  the 
one  she  came  to  instantly  could  but  give  him  pain,  and  must 
look  like  resentment  because  of  past  neglect,  or  like  indiffer- 
ence to  a  fellow  creature's  need,  that  fellow-creature  being, 
of  all  others,  the  companion  and  friend  of  the  happiest  days 
her  memory  could  recall — days  when  his  mother's  house 
was  the  one  that  opened  to  receive  a  forlorn  orphan,  and  his 
mother's  voice  was  the  voice  to  call  her  child. 

"  You  must  let  me  think  of  it,"  she  said  ;  "  I  can  write  to 
you  about  it.  You  know  I  am  not  famous  for  my  quick  de- 
cisions— I  was  always  slow.  You  used  to  complain  of  that." 

"  And  would  now,  if  past  experience  had  taught  me  that 
anything  could  be  gained  by  it.  You  were  never  to  be  en- 
treated or  badgered  into  yielding.  I  remember  you  of  old. 
But  mother  always  said  that  of  the  two  you  were  after  all 
most  prompt !  That  when  you  had  decided  a  thing  you  had 
no  need  to  reconsider.  Yes,  I  remember — you  would  live 
two  "lives  to  my  one,  she  said.  For  I  should  lose  just  half 
my  time.  But  I  have  run  fast  so  far,  Mercy.  There's  no 
one  else  to  tell  you,  so  I  may — for  you  know  nothing  abort 
me,  though  you  look  as  though  you  thought  you  knew  it  all 
There  are  men  of  twice  my  age  who  would  be  glad  of  half 
the  business  that  crowds  into  my  office.  I  must  have  some 
weight  in  a  Court  room,  or  it  wouldn't  be  so.  I  didn't  get 
the  business  by  fooling  my  time  away,  I  can  tell  you.  But 
still  I  am  not  a  slave  in  my  office — though  I  know  if  a  man 
will  not  work  neither  shall  he  eat." 


THE  COUSIN.  279 

Aptomar  had  before  now  spoken  words  of  not  half  the 
weight  of  these,  with  vastly  more  of  pride.  Dealing  with 
these  bald  truths  he  let  them  go  for  what  they  were  worth, 
and  having  stated,  need  not  dwell  upon  them. 

"  I  can  see,"  said  Mercy,  and  she  plainly  could ;  "  for 
that  very  reason  I  am  slower  to  decide  than  if  you  were  a 
poor  man  yet,  and  struggling  with  difficulties." 

"  Yes — that  is  you.  And  you  cannot  understand  that  I 
need  you  ten  times  more  now  than  if  I  were  a  poor  man, 
quite  obscure.  For  then  1  should  suffice  to  myself — would 
not  involve  you  in  my  misfortunes  ;  nor  set  you  to  watchful- 
ness and  .possible  disappointment.  Because  I  have  gained 
what  I  have — I  need  you  to  stand  by  me." 

"  There  or  here,  cousin  Horatio — it  matters  not  where — 
by  you,  as  when  we  were  children,  and  your  mother  was 
mine." 

"  As  cousin — as  wife,  then,  Mercy  !  For  since  we  sepa- 
rated if  I  have  not  thought  constantly  of  you,  I  have  thought 
of  no  other  woman.  Come,  join  your  force  with  mine.  Not 
as  one  might  do  it  at  a  distance  through  friendly,  cousinly 
love — but  in  a  nearness  that  is  like  nothing  but  itself — in 
marriage,  Mercy  !" 

"  Cousin  Horatio  !" 

"  We  used  to  talk  of  that.  It  ought  not  to  surprise  you. 
There,  you  think  I  am  over-hasty  !  I  shall  never  woo  a 
woman  longer  than  I  have  wooed  you.  Recollect  how  long 
ago  it  began.  And  I  tell  you  again  I  have  never  thought 
of  any  other  wife.  Mercy,  would  not  this  have  pleased  our 
mother  ?  You  look  away.  Let  me  see  your  face  at  least, 
Mercy,  whatever  is  in  it  for  me." 

This  appeal,  for  it  was  an  appeal,  powerful  as  an  eloquent 
tongue,  conscious  how  rarely  it  could  be  withstood,  could 
make  it,  had  its  answer  even  before  Mercy  said, 

"  Our  love  was  for  childhood — but  remember  it  was  love 
not  to  be  appealed  to  in  evidence  on  this  day.  We  should 
have  a  better  constancy  to  hope  by  than  we  have  real- 
ized." 

"  I  am  not  thirty  yet.  Mercy  cannot  know  how  I  have 
worked,  giving  myself  only  to  work  in  order  to  stand  where 
I  do  this  day,"  he  answered  proudly.  "  I  repent  that  loss 
of  years  more  than  you  can  regret  it.  Will  not  that  suffice  ? 
What  I  have  earned  is  at  your  feet.  If  you  would  go  with 


280  PETER  CARRADINE. 

me  to-night  and  find  in  my  home  yours,  the  world  would  be 
better  served  by  me  than  it  has  been.  Can  you  not  trust 
me  ?  Must  I  still  explain  ?  You  were  more  magnanimous 
as  a  child.  Perhaps — I'll  ask  the  question  outright,  has 
any  man  won  more  than  I  have  ?" 

Mercy  hesitated — but  she  answered,  "  No."  Dazzled  by 
his  presence,  thrilled  by  his  voice,  how  should  she  remem- 
er  Peter  Carradine? 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  you  understand  me.  We  at  least  are 
cousins."  There  he  dropped  the  point  and  began  to  speak 
of  other  things. 

Exhibiting  of  a  mere  necessity  so  varied  and  so  rich  a 
culture,  as  he  spoke,  in  all  his  speaking,  as  to  delight  and 
surprise  Mercy  ;  as  fairly  to  set  her  on  the  question  wheth- 
er it  were  not  a  fact  that  rust  was  the  Martindale  portion. 

His  conversation  stimulated  her  beyond  any  she  had  ever 
listened  to.  An  hour  wonderful  to  her  in  every  future 
review,  passed  by  and  was  gone.  Like  an  arrow  Aptomar 
had  flashed  into  Martindale — and  the  mark  aimed  at  had 
certainly  been  gained.  He  had  assuredly  seen  his  cousin — 
and  was  held  fast  in  the  vision.  But  would  he  free  himself 
from  it,  and  go  his  way  to  forget  ?  Charmed  again  by  a 
siren  voice  sweeter  than  Mercy's,  and  a  touch  that  could 
thrill  him  yet  more  marvellously.  Love  truer  and  purer 
than  he  could  ever  know  again  was  surely  entreating  him—- 
his own  love  for  another,  not  himself. 

It  was  his  nature  to  hope,  and  to  expect  the  realizations 
of  his  hopes — so  he  went  from  Martindale  not  fearful — dar- 
ing to  trust  Mercy  to  such  influences  as  should  surround  her 
there.  He  would  constrain  her  to  know  what  it  was  to  live, 
week  by  week,  on  the  Martindale  Post  Office. 


FOR   NATURE,    OR   AGAINST?  281 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

FOK      NATURE,      OK      AGAINST? 

MR.  CARRADINE  was  not  so  easy  in  his  mind,  not  so  occu- 
pied with  his  improvements,  as  to  have  no  interest  in  ascer- 
taining somewhat  in  regard  to  this  vision  of  youth  and  of 
pride  by  whom  Miss  Fuller  was  attended  along  the  peaceful 
roads  of  Martindale. 

The  spectacle  had  electrified  him,  it  was  not  the  mere  or- 
dinary progress  of  a  mere  ordinary  pair  he  had  observed 
and  continued  to  observe — we  will  not  say  watched. 

He  did  not  in  an  excess  of  curiosity  present  himself  to 
Mercy  for  the  acknowledged  purpose  of  getting  the  mystery 
solved  ;  but,  meeting  her  by  chance,  at  it  were,  on  the  road- 
side as  she  came  from  school,  he  told  her  of  the  difficulty 
which  had  arisen  between  himself  and  the  "  professed  gar- 
dener" he  had  procured  from  Brighton,  in  regard  to  the  mea- 
dow land  that  stretched  out  beyond  the  slope. 

Perhaps  Miss  Fuller  would  be  good  enough  to  settle  the 
point.  Mr.  Carradine  would  be  only  too  glad  to  leave  it 
with  any  sensible  person.  Smith's  determination  was,  to 
divert  the  brook  from  its  old  channel  in  order  to  leave  the 
meadows  free  ;  a  purpose  so  opposed  to  Carradine's  designs 
and  desires  that  to  mention  it  threw  him  into  a  heat.  Seeing 
how  much  he  really  was  vexed,  Mercy  offered  to  go  with 
him  to  the  ground  in  order  to  ascertain  by  inspection  a  clear 
view  of  his  meaning,  and  Smith's  plan,  against  which  he  had 
so  steadily  set  himself. 

Mercy's  readiness  to  help  him  out  of  his  perplexity  dissi- 
pated that  angry  will,  to  the  merest  indecision  ;  and  now 
a  word  from  her  would  decide  the  matter,  and  whether  for 


282  PETER   CARRADINE. 

or   against,  to  his  satisfaction.  '  For,  did  not  Miss  Fuller 
understand  about  all  these  things  ? 

But  the  point  was  still  ungained — the  great  question  Tin- 
satisfied,  with  which  Mr.  Carradine  had  strolled  out  to  meet 
Miss  Fuller.  Until,  of  herself,  without  suggestion  on  his 
part,  he  was  thereafter  ever  proud  to  think,  Mercy  said,  • 

"  You  passed  my  cousin  yesterday,  Mr.  Carradine.  I  told 
you  about  Horatio.  He  dropped  out  of  the  clouds,  I  still 
continue  to  think." 

"  Your  cousin,"  responded  Mr.  Carradine,  with  a  mere 
well-behaved  interest.  "  I  was  thinking  you  would  be  like 
to  find  each  other  out  again.  You  were  saying  some  great 
things  about  him,  if  I  recollect  ?  Are  you  good  at  fortune 
telling  ?  I  know  you  must  be." 

"  Better  than  I  thought." 

"  Then  you  are  pleased — "  Carradine  looked  as  if  he 
were  almost  pleased  himself.  "  But  what  did  he  think  of 
your  being  here  ?  He's  not  like  the  Martindell  men.  Didn't 
he  wonder  at  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mercy  frankly — meeting  his  glance  with  one 
as  open  and  honest ;  yet  it  seemed  almost  that  her  eyes  re- 
flected the  trouble  of  his. 

"  You  told  him  it  wouldn't  be  a  thing  to  wonder  at  long, 
I  expect.  Such  a  deestrict  wouldn't  be  like  to  keep  you  in 
it  long." 

"  That  wasn't  the  thing  I  said,  sir,"  answered  Mercy, 
pausing  as  they  gained  the  summit  of  the  hill,  turning  at 
that  elevation  to  gaze  on  the  landscape  always  lovely  to  her 
eyes.  A  pace  or  two  beyond  in  full  relief  stood  Peter  Car- 
radine. Something  noble,  strong,  even  granite-like,  she 
seemed  to  see  in  that  human  structure  as  he  stood  there 
moved  by  what  thoughts,  what  hope  and  jealousy,  she  dared 
not  fully  guess.  Not  void  of  heroism  she  saw  that  life  of 
forty  years.  In  its  way  had  it  sought  for  light,  and  on  its 
darkness  light  had  fallen.  He  had  struggled,  groped,  gone 
astray — but,  as  she  looked  at  him,  he  stood  erect,  and  blind 
were  the  eyes  that  could  not  see,  in  spite  of  all  that  was 
apparent,  something  familiar  to  the  eyes  of  God  alone  ; 
something  dear  to  God. 

Aptomar  had  pleaded  that  he  had  need  of  her.  Had  this 
man  a  need  that  was  more  intelligible  ?  One  that  touched 
her  more  nearly  ?  Suddenly  these  two  men,  complete  in 


FOR   NATURE,    OR   AGAINST?  283 

unlikeness,  were  arrayed  against  each  other  in  her  secret 
thought.  And  her  heart  was  hurried  before  them  both  as  a 
witness  and  a  judge. 

A  question  urged  itself  to  Mr.  Carradine's  lips  when 
Mercy  made  that  answer;  but  he  restrained  himself;  he 
would  urge  no  right  to  know  what  thing  it  was  she  had  said. 
What  right  had  he  ?  And  yet  he  may  have  felt  a  right's 
existence.  But  at  least  he  would  not  attempt  to  make  that 
clear  to  her. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  resuming  the  walk,  "  let  us  see  about 
the  vexed  question,  Mr.  Carradine.  For  the^  meadow  at 
least  will  always  stay  in  Martindale.  And  I  should  be  sor- 
ry, for  one,  if  the  brook  were  forced  out  of  its  old  channel 
for  the  sake  of  any  effect.  It  is  hard  to  go  against  na- 
ture." 

"  Why  then,"  said  he,  stopping  short  again,  "  if  you're 
of  that  mind,  if  you  go  for  nature,  you've  settled  the  ques- 
tion, Miss  Fuller.  I  won't  have  a  spade  stuck  into  the  sod. 
Not  one.  I  hated  the  notion,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  hated 
it,  but  these  dogs  are  arbitrary  as  the  devil,  I  tell  you. 
They  laugh  at  your  notions,  your  ignorance,  they  call  it 
most  likely,  as  if  all  they  were  on  earth  for  was  to  make 
money  out  of  honest  folks  by  their  new-fangled  foolishness  ; 
it  won't  get  a  better  name  out  of  me.  I'll  have  that  mea- 
dow land  left  as  it  is,  and  as  it  always  has  been  since  I 
drained  it.  I  didn't  mind  about  the  slope.  But  that  brook  ! 
I  can  remember  when  it  was  a  feat  to  jump  across  it  from 
one  stone  to  another — and  there's  where  we  used  to  skate 
when  it  overflowed  and  froze  in  winter  time.  .  There  were 
low  bushes  growing  down  there  once  that  bore  a  kind  of 
berry — "  his  voice  faltered.  "  I've  never  found  a  better  in 
the  woods — and  I  tried  to  keep  'em  alive  from  that  old 
stock,  but  it  died  out.  I've  seen  my  mother  gathering  wa- 
ter cress  down  there  ...  it  was  a  long  while  ago,  Miss 
Fuller,  but  I  can  see  that  sight  yet  .  .  .  Maybe  you're 
tired,  and  won't  care  about  going  on  to  see  it,  after  all,  Miss 
Fuller."  For  her  footsteps  seemed  to  falter. 

"  I  care,"  she  said,  and  continued  walking  with  him.  Pre- 
sently she  added,  "  I  heard  you  speak  about  Mr.  Hooper's 
grounds,  sir  ;  you  liked  the  way  they  were  laid  out.  Your 
land  lies  differently,  but  I  should  think  at  quite  as  good  ad- 
vantage." 


284  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"  Yes  !" — he  was  well  pleased.  "  I've  said  that  often 
enough,  but  you'd  think  land  in  Martindell  was  another 
thing  from  land  in  Brighton  to  hear  that  fellow  talk.  We've 
quarrelled  ever  since  he  came  here — it  would  disgust  you  ! 
and  I  sent  him  off  about  his  business  once.  But  I  had  to 
get  him  back  again,  for  Johnson  and  I  were  clowns  at  such 
work  as  we  had  got  ourselves  into." 

This  fact,  sore  in  experience,  had  its  first  mitigation  when 
Mr.  Carradine  had  confessed  it  to  Mercy.  He  smiled  when 
he  spoke,  with  less  embarrassment  and  less  displeasure 
than  he  hadjfelt  until  now  in  view  of  the  troubles  he  had 
endured  in  keeping  his  contract  with  the  landscape  gardener 
from  Brighton. 

"  I'll  stop  his  talk  though,  about  Hooper,"  he  added. 
"  I've  nothing  against  Hooper,  understand — but  he's  a  man, 
I  take  it  after  all,  in  spite  of  his  wonderful  grounds." 

It  was  Mercy's  turn  to  smile  now — and  she  smiled  in  such 
good  earnest  that  Carradine  broke  into  a  laugh  ;  so  merry 
he  had  not  been  since  he  engaged  in  that  serious  perplexing 
work  of  "  improvements,"  which  had  occupied  so  much  of 
his  thought  since  the  fourth  day  of  July. 

Then  he  told  her,  as  if  certain  of  her  interest,  speaking 
with  a  freedom  that  might  have  surprised  himself,  of  the  re- 
pairs in  the  old  farm  house  ;  how  it  had  seemed  to  him  nei- 
ther right  nor  decent  for  a  man  to  neglect  his  house  as  he 
would  not  neglect  his  barns.  He  remembered,  he  told  her, 
what  she  herself  had  said  about  those  fine  houses  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Brighton  ;  so,  though  he  had  done  no  more 
than  was  barely  needful  in  repairing  and  amending,  he  hoped 
she  would  feel  grateful  to  him  for  doing  of  it,  even  as  he 
felt  to  her  for  suggesting  the  same — for  this  she  had  done 
certainly,  though  perhaps  she  knew  it  not,  by  her  praise  of 
other  places — praise  that  set  his  own  home  in  so  shabby  a 
contrast.  He  thanked  her — because  but  for  her  words  he 
might  have  gone  on  to  the  end  without  knowing  anything  of 
the  pleasure  a  man  has  in  making  a  home  that  has  a  pleasant 
look  to  outsiders/ 

They  came  now  to  the  farm  gate  ;  but  Mr.  Carradine  had 
barely  opened  it  when  Johnson  came  hurrying  up  the  road, 
looking  much  disturbed,  and  speaking  out  the  disturbance 
with  the  peremptoriness  of  real  alarm. 

"  There's  something  wrong  down  there,  sir,  in  the  big  lot. 


FOR   NATURE,    OR   AGAINST  ?  285 

I  don't  like  the  looks  of  't.  Can't  you  come  down  right 
away  ?" 

"  To  be  sure.  What's  i'  the  wind  now,  Johnson  ?"  But 
the  master  had  taken  no  alarm  from  the  man's  fright.  Per- 
haps he  felt  safe  on  all  sides,  Mercy  so  near. 

"  Them  black  heifers  is  wheezing  as  if  they'  had  got  the 
lung  cough  onto  them.  And  their  eyes  running  like  as  I 
never  see  cattle's  eyes  afore.  If  you'll  come  there  !" 

"  Are  they  restive,  and  making  trouble  in  the  herd,  too  ?" 

"  No,  they  stand  stuck,  as  if  they'd  grow  to  the  ground 
afore  night.  There's  something  bad  about  it,  sir  !" 

Johnson  wheeled  about  and  began  to  walk  down  the  hill 
towards  the  lot — he  wouldn't  stand  there  to  be  questioned, 
when  his  master's  place  was  among  the  cattle,  and  not  on 
the  lawn,  as  Smith  called  it,  a  questioning  of  him.  If  one 
could  believe  it  of  Johnson,  he  seemed  to  be  muttering  all 
the  way  to  tne  lot. 

"  Will  you  look  at  the  plan  of  the  grounds,  and  make 
what  you  can  out  of  it  ?  Perhaps  Smith  is  around — he'll 
explain.  And  I'd  like  your  opinion  when  I've  pacified 
Johnson  ;  he  seems  to  be  riled  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Carradine. 

Without  waiting  for  Mercy's  answer,  he  closed  the  gate 
behind  her — the  handsome  new  gate  which  had  its  orna- 
mental arch  and  its  handsome  posts  of  wrought  iron,  painted 
black,  and  shining  so  that  you  could  see  them  from  afar. 

And  he  went  down  to  the  lot. 

"  There's  something  got  hold  of  'em,"  said  Johnson,  who 
was  waiting  for  him  by  the  bars  of  the  fine  ten  acre  lot 
where  the  cattle  roved  amid  the  richest  pasturage  ;  "  it's  like 
to  prove  a  plague  to  us,  sir,  if  it  don't  to  them.  You  stand 
still  here  a  minute  and  see  if  you  couldn't  p'int  'em  out 
yourself,  sir." 

Carradine's  eyes,  quick  and  far-seeing,  roved  over  the 
field — rapid  was  the  observation,  and  soon  over.  "  Come 
on,  Johnson,"  said  he,  "  we've  got  a  work  before  us.  Bring 
on  the  long  whips  ;  we  must  clear  the  sheep  pen  and  get 
these  creatures  out  of  the  way  ;  they're  dead,  and  they'll 
taint  the  whole  drove,  if  we  don't  put  an  end  to  it." 

"  Do  you  understand  the  case,  sir  ?"  Johnson  was 
amazed.  "  Why,  we  never  see  the  like." 

"  Yes,  like  enough.  They're  as  wheezy  as  if  they  were 
in  the  last  stages  of  asthma.  I  know  that  symptom.  Come  ! 


286  PETER   CAERADINE. 

get  your  whips.  There's  no  time  to  lose  here.  But  where's 
Ajax  ?  Johnson  !  first  of  all,  lead  Ajax  over  to  the  barn — 
he's  worth  a  thousand  of  this  cursed  foreign  breed.  There's 
Roy's  heifers  !  Thunder  and  lightning  !  if  they  should  get 
it  scattering  among  the  old  man's  stock  ! . . . .  we've  got  one 
day's  work  before  us." 


Mercy  did  not  find  Smith  on  the  grounds ;  she  certainly 
made  no  search  for  him ;  she  was  still  walking  silently 
about,  observing  all  the  changes  that  had  been  made  in  the 
hitherto  neglected  grounds,  and  had  even  gone  to  the  bor- 
ders of  the  brook  in  the  meadow,  without  having  yet  sought 
Mrs.  Johnson. 

It  was  Mr.  Johnson  who  at  last  escorted  her  to  the  house 
door  and  his  wife's  presence.  He  came  running  across  the 
lots  on  his  way  to  the  house,  and  when  their  paths  struck 
she  joined  him  to  inquire  into  his  fears  in  regard  to  the  cat- 
tle. 

Mr.  Carradine  understood  it,  he  said — it  was  the  cattle 
disease  he  had  read  about,  and  the  quickest  way  to  stop  its 
spreading  was  to  destroy  the  infected  ones  forthwith.  He 
accordingly  was  on  his  way  to  bring  Mr.  Carradine's  rifle — 
there  were  seven  bullocks  in  the  sheepfold  waiting  to  be 
shot,  and  nobody  knew  how  many  more  would  be  down  with 
the  plague  to-morrow. 

Was  Ajax  among  them,  Mercy  asked.  And  Johnson  need 
not  have  wondered  at  the  question,  for  he  knew  that  Mercy 
had  given  that  fine  name  to  the  lordly  creature,  and  every 
one  understood  what  a  favorite  he  was  with  his  owner. 

No,  he  told  her,  Ajax  was  safe  for  all  they  could  see  yet. 
They  had  put  him  into  the  barn,  and  If  there  was  such  a 
thing  as  keeping  disease  out  by  doors  and  bolts,  there  was 
nothing  to  fear  for  Ajax. 

The  news  of  this  misfortune  in  the  fields  impressed  Mrs. 
Johnson.  Her  mood  was  that  of  lamentations,  and  she  read- 
ily fell  in  with  any  facts  of  trouble. 

"  It's  whafs  been  i'  the  wind  all  summer,"  she  said  to 
Mercy,  when  Johnson  had  taken  the  rifle  and  gone  back  to 
Mr.  Carradine.  "  I  heard  him  say  not  long  ago,  if  ever  he 
found  any  such  plague  among  his  stock  he  wouldn't  tamper 


FOR   NATURE,    OR   AGAINST  ?  287 

with  it  a  minute.  He'd  made  quick  work  of  it.  It's  been 
on  my  mind  there  was  trouble  a  brewing  for  Mr.  Carradine. 
Like  enough  he'll  be  turned  into  stun  afore  the  week's  out, 
with  this  trouble  coming  onto  the  top  of  the  words  he  has 
had  with  Smith,  who  torments  the  life  out  o'  him  with  the 
pleasure.  You'd  be  right  vexed,  Miss  Fuller,  for  a  man 
used  to  giving  his  orders  having  a  creature  round  asking  his 
wishes  all  so  respectful,  and  then  setting  out  to  oppose 
them,  by  and  large,  never  giving  up  an  inch  hisself  till  he's 
got  down  the  buttonwoods  and  wa'nuts — setting  a  man  at  his 
time  of  life,  for  Mr.  Carradine  isn't  overly  young  !  to  wait- 
ing for  such  green  trash,  ornamental  trees,  they  call  'em,  to 
grow  up,  as  if  they'd  fill  the  places  of  what  they've  chopped 
down  so  wanton,  when  they'd  done  their  best !....!  could 
cry  my  eyes  out  when  I  look  t'  the  old  corner  where  the 
robin  built  her  nest  this  ten  year,  the  same  old  robin,  I  do 
believe,  and  see  that  great  ugly  hole,  though  to  be  sure  it 
gives  you  more  sky  to  look  at,  and  all  the  comfort  there's  in 
living  after  all  is  to  be  able  to  read  a  title  clear  to  mansions 
up  there." 

Mrs.  Johnson  wiped  her  eyes,  having  with  rare  vehemence 
thus  expressed  herself,  and  invited  Mercy  in  to  look  at  the 
improvements,  "  as  they  called  "em," — thus  she  always  qual- 
ified her  use  of  the  term — it  would  give  Mr.  Carradine  a 
pleasure  to  know  that  Miss  Fuller  had  gone  over  the  housen. 
He  would  be  sure  to  ask  about  it. 

But  before  she  arose  to  follow  Mrs.  Johnson,  Mercy  said, 
with  her  eyes  on  the  spot  where  the  buttonwood  trees  had 
stood, 

"  Mrs.  Johnson,  I  could  cry,  too — Smith  never  could  do 
anything  to  make  up  for  the  loss  of  those  splendid  trees  ! 
What  a  shame  it  is.  What  did  Mr.  Carradine  say  ?" 

"  He  said — 'twas  wicked,  but  I  couldn't  wonder  at  it,  he 
said  the  idiot  wasn't  worth  a  curse,  or  he'd  get  it.  He  was 
;in  a  rage,  Miss  Fuller.  You  wouldn't  a  liked  to  see  it.  Oh, 
'I  tell  you  it  isn't  very  pleasant  getting  a  pleasure  laid  out 
in  a  old  place  where  every  thing  is  sort  o'  sacred.  It  comes 
hard  ;  it  do  " 

Even  as  Miranda  had  done  before  her,  Mercy  followed  her 
guide  about  from  garret  to  cellar  of  the  old  new  mansion. 

And  it  was  not  an  idle  work,  this  of  close  observation, 
that  was  carried  on  there.  Not  idle,  nor  fruitless.  It 


288  PETER   CARRADINE. 

moved  her  to  see  the  abounding  eridences  of  gentle  thought 
that  had  been  taken  of  needs  that  surely  Mr.  Carradine  him- 
self had  never  felt — of  tastes  that  for  himself  had  never 
been  fostered.  It  moved  her  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Johnson, 
how,  in  the  first  days  after  the  changes  were  completed,  he 
he  had  gone  over  the  housen  again  and  again,  "  deranging 
things  with  his  own  hands,"  and  "  notifying  all,"  with  a  sat- 
isfaction wonderful  to  see  of  them  that  knowed  how  little 
store  he  had  ever  set  by  what  some  might  even  call  the  mere 
comforts  of  life. 

Mercy  praised  every  thing — but  her  words  were  few. 
She  explained  the  use  of  much  that  had  passed  the  compre- 
hension of  simple  Mrs.  Johnson.  There  were  two  apart- 
ments across  whose  threshold  she  did  not  pass  ;  the  parlor, 
and  that  room  whose  key  Mrs.  Johnson  dared  not  bring  for 
Miranda's  inspection,  but  which  she  opened  without  com- 
ment for  Miss  Fuller  ;  for  she  had  an  instinctive  conviction 
that  of  all  rooms  in  the  house  he  would  choose  that  she 
should  see  this. 

From  looking  into  that  room  Mercy  turned  away  without  a 
word.  She  seemed  to  have  looked  too  far  into  the  heart  of 
the  man  who  had  brought  all  these  things  together,  certainly 
not  for  any  want  of  his  ;  as  certainly  not  for  satisfaction  of 
any  pride  of  his.  No,  no  ;  all  this  had  been  done  to  show 
her  that  he  could  afford  a  state  equal  to  that  of  other  men, 
whose  fine  farms  and  fine  dwellings  gave  them  their  local 
honor. 

Mrs.  Johnson  tried  hard  to  conceal  how  depressed  she 
was  in  spirit  when  she  and  Miss  Fuller  sat  down  to  rest  in 
the  long  porch  ;  she  tried  hard  to  bring  herself  to  speak  of 
the  contemplated  moving,  but  not  with  success.  Here,  after 
all,  was  the  root  of  offence,  the  stumbling  block, — not  in 
Randy,  for  she  had  been  able  to  speak,  and  to  confess,  in 
Randy's  hearing.  Perhaps  the  influence  that  seemed  always 
to  flow  out  of  Mercy's  mere  presence  did  now  but  increase 
her  trouble — a  sense  of  her  own  injustice,  of  her  own  self- 
ishness, may  not  a  little  have  plagued  her.  It  was  certainly 
with  the  impetuosity  of  a  somewhat  desperate  state  of  mind 
that  she  at  last  arose  and  proposed  that  they  should  walk 
down  to  the  lot,  and  see  what  was  really  going  on  there. 

She  secretly  hoped  that  Mercy  would  decline  this  invita- 
tion, while  for  her  own  part  she  was  absolutely  determined 


FOR    NATURE,    OR    AGAINST  ?  289 

on  going  ;  she  would  not  have  it  on  her  mind  or  hands  to  en- 
tertain the  young  lady  for  another  moment. 

But  Mercy  was  as  ready  for  the  walk  as  Mrs.  Johnson. 
And,  as  they  went  into  the  lane,  they  were  met  by  old  Sam- 
uel Roy,  He  was  in  haste,  and  in  trouble.  Was  Mr.  John- 
son anywhere  about?  "Was  Mr.  Carradine  ?  There  was 
something  wrong  about  those  heifers.  He'd  had  his  eye  on 
them  for  this  two  days  ;  they  seemed  to  be  struck  of  some- 
thing— a  cough  like — and  from  being  as  frisky  as  young 
lambs,  they  stood  about  as  if  they  were  under  some  en- 
chantment. During  the  last  half-dozen  hours  old  Samuel 
had  repeated  this  description  many  times  to  Randy,  and  he 
was  acting  on  her  counsel  now  when  he  came  up  to  consult 
with  the  generous  giver  of  that  precious  gift  of  cattle. 

Mrs.  Johnson  looked  at  Mercy  before  she  answered  him. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  she,  kindly,  "  I'm  afraid  there's  trou- 
ble in  store  for  all  the  neighbors.  Whatever  it  is,  Mr.  Car- 
radine's  herd  is  as  bad  as  your'n,  Samuel,  and  we're  just 
going  down  to  see  what's  been  doing.  If  you're  minded, 
come  along.  They  say  there's  only  one  cure  for  'm,  when 
they  get  in  this  plight." 

"  What's  that,  Miss  Johnson  ?"  asked  Samuel,  and  his 
voice,  that  was  full  of  quavers  always,  seemed  now  to  have 
in  it  a  deeper  tremble. 

"  A  rifle  shot.  And  no  time  to  be  lost  about  it.  They 
can't  be  cured,  Mr.  Carradine  says,  and  it's  like  rot  to  get 
into  a  herd." 

Old  Samuel  did  now  tremble  ;  his  cattle  were  not  many, 
and  they  were  his  pride — his  riches,  I  had  almost  said. 
But  he-had  really  no  riches  :  he  was  a  poor  man  :  and  in 
times  of  panic,  and  of  crisis,  not  only  the  great  stock-jobber, 
note-shaver  and  general  speculator  has  a  right  to  alarm. 

When  Carradine  saw  the  old  man  coming  down  the  road 
with  the  women,  he  came  out  to  meet  the  party,  and  his 
first  words  told  how  his  thoughts  ran. 

"  Sam'l,  old  boy,  I've  played  you  a  poor  turn  this  time, 
I'm  afraid.  What  are  the  heifers  doing  ?" 

"  They're  in  a  trance,  sir,  with  the  water  running  from 
their  eyes,  and — " 

"  Wheezing  like  possessed  1" 

"  Yes  sir,  just  so." 

"  I  shall  have  to  knock  it  out  o'   them,    then.      Go  home 

13 


290  PETER   CARRADIXE. 

and  put  those  heifers  by  themselves,  if  you  have  to  tie  them 
to  your  door.  Don't  let  them  come  nigh  the  others  ;  it's  in 
their  breath,  may  be,  Lord  knows  where  it  is  !  but  if  I  save 
a  quarter  of  my  stock  I  shall  think  I'm  well  off.  Don't  lose 
any  time.  I'll  be  over.  I've  been  worrying  about  you.  Yes, 
I  have.  Keep  a  sharp  look  out  on  the  others.  Johnson  will 
be  around  in  an  hour,  if  I  don't  come.  Go  on.'' 

The  order  was  not  to  be  argued.  The  old  man  turned, 
obedient  as  a  child.  Mrs.  Johnson's  eyes  followed  him 
tearfully — seeing  that,  Mr.  Carradine  said  cheerfully, 

"  Don't  fret,  mother,  Sanvl  won't  lose  by  me.  I'll  sell 
the  Hill  farm  itself  first" 

In  spite  of  his  disturbance,  his  anxiety,  and  his  purpose 
to  drive  over  to  Jackson's  Corners  before  nightfall,  in  order 
to  ascertain  what  he  knew  in  regard  to  this  distemper,  Mr, 
Carradine  had  time  and  thought  to  recall  the  errand  on  which 
Mercy  had  come  to  his  house  with  him.  But  he  did  not  ask 
her  criticism  on  whatever  she  had  seen,  until  she  was  sit- 
ting by  his  side  in  the  democrat,  and  he  was  driving  Sorrel 
on  .the  road  to  Calvin  Green's,  the  Elder's  house  at  present 
being  her  place  of  sojourn. 

He  inquired  of  her  then  whether  he  should  quarrel  with 
Smith  any  more,  or  let  the  mule  have  his  way  !  Perhaps 
she  had  changed  her  mind  about  the  brook. 

No — Mercy  had  not  changed  her  mind.  Smith  must  be 
held  in  check,  peremptorily  ;  and  not  forgiven  in  a  day  for 
cutting  down  that  clump  of  fine  button  trees  that  threw  their 
shadows  so  far  on  a  hot  summer  day. 

She  spoke  only  from  the  natural  tendencies  of  her  heart, 
and  perhaps  Carradine  took  the  words  for  no  more.  *Yet  he 
thanked  her  with  gratitude  for  the  grace  of  her  speech — in 
secret  thanked  her  as  he  could  not  in  words. 

And  could  it  fail  to  be  with  Mercy  a  question,  as  they 
drove  along  the  very  road  where  she  had  but  now  walked 
with  her  cousin,  whether  indeed  this  Martindale  life  was  the 
waste  he  would  represent  ?  Pleasant  it  was,  and  fair  ;  and 
interests  many  and  varied  were  here  ;  but  at  the  last  a 
waste  ?  and  the  passing  life  a  rusting  out  ?  Surely,  there 
were  degrees  of  culture  never  to  be  reached  here,  easily 
enough  within  her  scope  elsewhere.  There  was  a  station 
impossible  to  make  even  apparent  here,  for  here  it  was  not ; 
but  vacant  elsewhere  ;  waiting  for  her,  it  might  be.  To  be 


FOR    NATURE,     OR    AGAINST  ?  291 

filled,  if  with  efficience,  with  no  mean  result;  Jf  with  con- 
tentment, with  what  a  measure  of  joy  !  She  seemed  to  hear 
the  city's  din  rolling  in  upon  this  stillness.  A  bright  array 
came  between  her  and  the  fair  green  fields  where  crops 
waved,  and  men  labored,  and  cattle  were  infected.  She  saw 
herself  summoned  to  a  life  of  intellectual  activity,  to  social 
triumphs,  to  wealth,  as  it  is  in  towns.  Her  cousin  was  in 
his  youth,  in  the  acknowledged  need  of  youth  ;  in  the  pride 
of  success  and  of  endeavor,  and  in  the  need  that  is  felt  in 
such  winning,  and  such  struggle.  Between  him  and  Peter 
Carradine  were  many  years,  and  more  than  time  could  ac- 
count for,  immeasurably  more  ;.  there  rolled  the  gulf  of  di- 
verse natures,  aspirations,  and  pursuits. 

She  heard  the  cow  bells,  and  the  sheep  bells  tinkling 
through  the  gathering  shadows  of  the  quiet  evening  ;  the 
lowing  of  the  herd,  the  bleating  of  the  fold.  Now  and  then 
the  rumble  of  a  teamster's  wagon  broke  upon  the  stillness  ; 
the  burden  of  the  day  was  over,  its  toil  was  all  ended.  No 
gas  burned  here  till  morning.  Here  were  no  festive  sounds 
— no  opera  tides  of  people  and  of  song.  No  such  illusions 
spread  over  Martindale.  Was  Martindale  too  dull  then,  too 
dead  for  ?  Held  it  no  illusion,  no  life  which  towered  above 
the  peaceful  plains  of  the  quiet  valley  like  some  old  Grecian 
hero  ? 

In  her  room  she  read  from  Homer's  book,  of  Hector  and 
of  Achilles  ;  read  long  after  sleep  had  fallen  on  every  soul 
within  the  town,  except  on  Peter  Carradine.  Was  it  Ajax 
kept  him  wakeful  ?  Or  the  slaughtered  cattle,  or  the  mis- 
fortune of  his  gift  to  Samuel  Roy,  for  it  seemed  that  even 
his  good  must  be  spoken  evil  of. 


292  PETER   CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


DEATH      IN      LIFE. 

MR.  COLLAMER  came  up  to  Martindale  one  Sunday  after- 
noon. It  was  the  first  day  of  September.  The  little  con- 
fregation  that  met  in  the  morning  for  worship  was  informed 
y  Elder  Green  that  the  minister  had  taken  pains  to  make 
needful  arrangements,  and  would  in  consequence  be  able  to 
preach  to  them  in  the  afternoon.  Accordingly  a  goodly 
company  of  Mr.  Collamer's  friends  and  "  converts"  gathered 
together,  a  little  after  noon,  prepared  to  wait  with  patience 
the  coming  of  the  preacher.  He  came  at  two  o'clock. 

At  five  the  house  was  vacant,  and  he  had  "  fit  audience 
though  few,"  in  a  solitary  woman — the  woman  was  Miranda. 

By  no  chance.  It  could  not  have  happened  by  chance 
that  after  the  congregation  had  dispersed,  and  Randy  had 
walked  far  on  the  road  home,  she  struck  into  a  path  that  led 
her  back  across  the  woodland  to  the  school-house  door. 

No — this  meeting  was  devised — it  was  deliberate,  and  sa- 
cred must  it  not  be,  as  became  their  hearts  ?  As  became 
the  day,  and  hour,  and  place  ?  The  place,  where  but  now 
listening  men  had  trembled,  and  wept,  before  the  power  and 
pathos  of  his  eloquence,  who  should  now  discouase  but  for 
one  solitary  soul,  bringing  to  her  a  special  evangel  ! 

It  pleased  the  minister  to  see  Miranda  looking  well  and 
happy.  He  could  readily  account  for  the  changes  he  saw 
had  taken  place  in  her  since  their  last  meeting.  Religious 
experience  had  enriched  and  elevated  her  nature.  This  no- 
ble aspect  of  womanhood,  its  frankness,  its  freedom,  charm- 
ed him.  Its  strength  seemed  to  reassure  him — he  both  be- 
lieved and  hoped  more  for  human  nature  since  her  emer- 
gence into  this  state  of  being. 


DEATH    IN    LIFE.  293 

To  anything  that  she  should  say  he  could  not  listen  with 
indifference.  And  it  was  so,  that  they  talked  first  of  Miss 
Fuller,  to  whom  Mr.  Collamer  had  brought  messages,  and  a 
package  from  her  cousin  ;  for  it  chanced,  he  said,  that  their 
lot  was  cast  in  the  same  town,  and  Mr.  Aptomar  had  sought 
him  out  on  his  cousin's  "  recommend." 

And  because  she  was  talking  with  him,  and  that  he  seem- 
ed interested  in  Miss  Fuller's  fortunes,  Handy  dwelt  on  her 
own  predictions  concerning  Mr.  Carradine — whereat  the 
minister  smiled.  Not  unobserved  of  Randy,  who,  supposing 
the  smile  was  a  token  of  doubt,  produced  her  proof  straight- 
way, becoming  from  that  moment  more  firmly  persuaded  in 
her  mind  in  regard  to  the  issue  of  events. 

"  It  was  just  for  Miss  Fuller's  sake,"  she  owned,  "  that  I 
felt  the  readier  to  make  peace  with  Mr.  Carradine.  And 
I've  wanted  every  one  to  know  I  was  at  peace  with  him. 
He's  tried  to  be  kind  to  us.  He  missed  of  it  in  the  end,  but 
we  never  doubted  what  his  motive  was.  He  couldn't  tell 
when  he  sent  over  those  fine  young  heifers  that  we  was  to 
lose  the  whole  of  our  stock  by  it.  And  he  showed  he  meant 
the  present  for  a  true  one,  in  the  ways  lie  took  to  make  the 
loss  good  to  father.  He  lost  five  hundred  head  of  cattle 
himself.  I  believe  in  Peter  Carradine,  Mr.  Collamer  ;  but, 
when  I  think  of  Miss  Fuller,  I  can't  help  it,  I  feel  scared. 
I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  warn  her  ;  but  then  I  know  she  can 
see  clearer  and  farther  into  things  than  I  ever  could.  I  don't 
believe,  sir,  that  one  of  us  born  and  brought  up  in  Martin- 
dell  on  these  farms  here,  ever  took  half  the  pleasure  she  has 
in  the  quiet  pretty  country.  Everything  has  charmed  her 
— from  the  least.'' 

"  Do  you  really  think  so,  Miranda  ?"  broke  in  the  minis- 
ter, as  if  he  had  some  special  and  serious  cause,  for  know- 
ing the  truth. 

"  She  loves  the  whole  of  it.  She  loves  even  me  !"  an- 
swered Miranda  with  full  belief. 

"  It  that  so  great  a  wonder  ?  .  .  .  I  am  so  sorry  to 
hear  that  your  father  has  met  with  such  a  loss;  it  went  hard 
with  him,  I  know.  But  how  did  he  take  it  ?  patiently  ?" 

"  The  cattle  you  mean.  He  could  only  take  it  one  away. 
Did  you  ever  hear  him  really  complain  ?  No  sir  !  nobody 
ever  did.  But  it  seems  now  a  long  while  since  it  happened. 
I  think  he  has  almost  forgotten  it.  Losses  never  plagued 


294  PETER    CAHRADIXE. 

him  much.      There  was  only  us  two — and  he  leans  on  inc. 
And  he  may,  dear  father  !" 

"  Good  daughter,  that  you  arc,  it's  like  bearing  on  a 
strong  staff.  I  know  he  feels  sure  of  it  Keep  your  brave 
heart,  Miranda,  it  is  worth  more  than  gold  that  cannot  be 
counted  for  abundance." 

"  But  I  was  saying,"  said  Randy  quickly  turning  from 
this  theme,  "  she  sees  everything  different  from  what  we  do, 
that's  the  reason  she  could  appreciate  Mr.  Carradine  bet- 
ter, I  suppose.  Some  people  say  it's  his  wealth  she'll  take 
him  for.  She  is  not  that  kind  of  woman.  She'll  marry  him 
for  love  if  for  anything." 

Mr.  Collamer  answered  that.  He  spoke  out  in  a  hurried 
and  excited  way. 

"  God  be  praised,  he  gives  the  loving  to  each  other.  He  is 
the  loving  Father." 

"  And  though,  when  I  was  at  the  camp-meeting,  I  thought 
surely  I  never  could  go  back  to  the  school  again — and  maybe 
I  never  shall — yet  the  thing  that  might  have  hindered  me 
then  would  not  now.  There's  nothing  seems  to  me  so  fool- 
ish as  such  pride  alS  I  had  then.  We  don't  live  so  long, 
Mr.  Collamer,  that  we  can  afford  to  waste  time  in  anger  and 
contention." 

Then  he  asked  her  about  the  Elder's  daughter ;  and  Mi- 
randa's face  looked  grave  when  she  answered.  It  seemed 
to  her — she  couldn't  understand,  but  she  felt  it  even  clearer 
than  she  saw  it — that  Sally  had  changed  toward  her,  and  not 
only  towards  her.  She  was  not  happy,  Randy  thought. 
Her  mind  was  troubled — she  seemed  discontented.  Mar- 
tindell  was  a  dull  place  to  her ;  though  she  was  born  and 
brought  up  there,  it  never  seemed  to  be  the  place  for  her. 
Sally  liked  society  and  excitement.  She  was  out  of  place 
on  a  farm  among  plain  people.  She  said,  sometimes,  she 
wished  she  had  not  gone  from  home  to  school  in  town — that,  as 
long  she  must  live  in  this  out-of-the-way  place,  she  might 
better  not  have  known  that  there  was  any  other  way  of  liv- 
ing. Miranda  wished  that  Mr.  Collamer  could  talk  with  her  ; 
he  might  show  her  how  far  wrong  she  was. 

He  promised  that  he  would  do  so — but  much  he  doubted 
his  ability  to  make  Sally  see  anything  she  had  not  the  heart 
to  see.  Only  experience  of  life  could  show  her  what  life 
was.  For  the  Elder's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  Elder's 


DEATH   IN    LIFE.  295 

wife,  and  for  the  young  lady's  sake,  he  prayed  it  might  not 
be  a  bitter  experience  that  must  bring  her  into  the  paths  of 
peace.  Then  he  would  have  drawn  Miranda  to  speak  to 
him  of  herself.  Had  she  nothing  to  tell  him  of  her  daily 
life,  more  than  could  be  written  ?  He  had  thought,  from 
expressions  he  found  in  her  letters  here  and  there,  that  pos- 
sibly it  might  be  needful  for  him  to  come  again  to  Martin- 
dale  some  day,  and  in  her  behalf ;  that  he  might  give  her  to 
some  happy  man.  But  then,  thinking  over  all  the  names  and 
faces  he  knew  in  Martindale,  he  could  not  decide  the  ques- 
tion— but  she  could  tell — and  would  she  ? 

Half  playfully  it  seemed,  and  yet  with  a  deep  seriousness, 
he  asked  these  questions.  Any  one  but  the  gravest  interest 
could  not  have  been  awakened  by  the  emotion  with  which  he 
saw  these  questions  were  heard. 

NOT  unnoticed  was  the  sudden  surprise — the  hesitation — 
the  painful  irresolution — and  the  finally  fixed  purpose  that 
seemed  to  be  clutched,  rather  than  quietly  arrived  at ; 
grasped  with  energy  that  made  her,  for  a  brief  space, 
speechless.  She  looked  at  her  questioner  as  startled,  as 
wildly  as  the  dead  man  raised  to  life  might  have  looked  to 
his  life-speaking  Master. 

"  It  may  be,"  she  said.  "  It  may  be,"  she  repeated. 
"  Mr.  Jobson  may  not  object  to  it.  If  he  knows  it  is  my 
wish,  he  will  not.  I  can  trust  his  secret  with  you — but  no 
other  person  knows  it.  Yo'u  see  what  he  is  doing  to  the 
tavern — by-and-by,  in  the  winter  perhaps,  I  shall  be  living 
there." 

She  did  not  look  at  him  to  observe  what  he  might  be 
thinking — his  reception  of  the  intelligence  she  had  commu- 
nicated ;  she  was  curious  to  know. 

"  I  think  you  will  choose  seriously  and  wisely,"  he  said  at 
length,  "  knowing  it  is  for  life.  Husband  and  wife  must  be 
for  eternity,  if  in  no  other  way,  in  this,  in  the  influence  they 
exert  on  one  another.  I  shall  wish  to  see  Mr.  Jobson,  now 
that  I  know  he  is  the  man  you  love." 

She  received  these  words  in  silence — were  these  congrat- 
ulations 1  Was  this  sufficient?  This  she  had  of  life,  suffi- 
cient to  the  heart  this  day  so  longing,  and  so  faint — yet  so 
honest  and  so  resolute  1 

If  the  silence  in  the  school-house  was  broken  again  that 
day,  he,  it  seemed,  must  break  it.  Yet  it  was  not  easy  for 


296  PETER   CARRADINE. 

him  to  speak  ;  the  air  seemed  close  and  heavy  to  him — it  al- 
most stifled  Randy. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  I  came  here  to-day  to  preach, 
and  to  see  Miss  Fuller.  But  it  seems  that  the  business  that 
concerns  me  most,  remains  yet  to  be  done.  I  want  to  ask 
advice  of  you,  Miranda,  as  I  would  of  a  sister.  You  have 
confided  your  heart's  secret  to  me  as  a  sister  might.  Stand 
still  in  that  relation  to  me,  dearest  friend.'' 

"I  will,"  said  she.  f 

Nevertheless,  he  hesitated  now — hesitated  even  after  he 
began  to  speak. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  .think  that  I  should  be  able  to  sat- 
isfy my  own  mind  without  anybody's  help.  Still,  I  have 
never  seen  a  woman  but  you  whom  I  would  be  willing  to 
have  know  me  as  I  know  myself.  It  seems  to  me  when  I 
see  you,  Miranda,  or  even  when  I  think  of  you,  as  if  my  van- 
ity must  remove  itself  out  of  sight.  It  would  hinder  your 
seeing  me  as  I  am.  And  it  could  not  but  offend  you." 

"  Your  vanity,  Mr.  Collamer  !" 

"  Yes,  don't  flatter  me  ;  you  can  afford  to  be  plain  with 
me.  You  are  the  one  woman  who  will  speak  the  truth  to 
me.  You  don't  know  how  I  rely  on  you.  But  don't  praise 
me.  I  get  enough  of  that.  I  want  plain  truth  from  you  ; 
severe  truth,  if  you  find  that  you  must  speak  it." 

Alas,  what  was  this  he  required  of  her  !  He  was  calling 
her  to  heavenly  heights — she  was  ascending  after  him  !  And 
yet  he  looked  as  if  he  deemed  she  were  to  descend  to  him 
from  above  !  How  calm  she  seemed  ;  but  the  life  within 
her,  the  hidden  life,  was  rising  as  a  giant  in  its  strength. 

"  I  am  a  young  man  yet,"  said  he,  "  and  you  might  think 
I  could  find  my  work — my  great  work — sufficient  to  occupy 
my  heart,  as  well  as  my  hands.  But  there  are  times  when 
the  best  friends  in  my  congregation  seem  to  me  so  far  off 
that  nothing  can  bring  us  together.  It  is  my  fault,  I  think. 
Not  because  I  would  have  it  so,  but  because  it  cannot  be 
helped — I  stand  isolated,  wanting  the  link  that  would  con- 
nect me  more  closely  with  my  people.  There  is  a  break  in 
the  chain,  and  a  woman  must  supply  it.  Then  I  should  be 
rightly  efficient  and  obviously  capable.  Do  you  see  this  as  I 
see  it?" 

"  Yes  I  think  it  must  be  so." 


DEATH     IN     LIFE.  297 

She  agreed  with  him  so  entirely  in  this,  that  he  found  it 
easier  to  speak  the  next  words. 

"  Something  very  singular  has  happened  ;  will  you  look  at 
this  and  tell  me  what  you  see  1" 

He  held  in  his  hand  a  little  chamois-leather  case,  from 
which  he  now  drew  a  miniature  likeness  of  a  lady,  so  beau- 
tiful that,  when  Miranda's  eyes  fell  upon  it,  it  was  the  beauty 
of  the  image  that  startled  her  ;  that  it  should  be  in  his  pos- 
session, that  he  should  submit  it  to  her  criticism,  was  an- 
other matter  to  be  thought  of  secondly. 

He  was  anxious  to  see  what  she  would  think,  and  when  he 
saw  how  softly  an  expression  stole  over  her  features — and 
that  she  brushed  a  tear  from  her  eyes — when  he  saw  her  so 
much  moved,  so  silent,  he  did  not  need  to  wait  for  her  words 
— he  said  : 

"  It  has  been  my  unspeakable  privilege  to  lead  that  lady 
to  the  Savior's  feet.  When  I  tell  you  that  a  new  song  is  in 
her  mouth,  it  means  even  more  than  the  great  deal  we 
mean,  saying  it  of  others.  I  wish  that  you  could  sing.  Her 
voice  is  like  a  well-tuned  instrument — and  the  Lord's  song 
on  her  lips  is  indeed  a  matter  of  rejoicing.  But  she  is  a 
child  of  wealth,  brought  up  in  fashion — " 

"  You  love  her,  sir,"  said  Randy,  suddenly  approaching 
the  point  which,  as  he  neared  it,  seemed  yet  a  great  way 
off. 

"Yes." 

"  And  she  loves  you." 

"  She  gave  me  this  little  likeness  of  herself — yes,  Miranda, 
she  loves  me." 

"  Yet  you  ask  my  advice,  Mr.  Collamer  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  sister.  And  I  exhort  you  by  the  sacredness  of 
friendship,  counsel  me.'' 

Exhorted  by  the  solemnity  and  earnestness  of  his  look 
and  manner,  still  more  than  by  thought  of  friendship  he  invok- 
ed, she  said  : 

"  If  G-od  has  put  it  into  your  two  hearts,  now  can  I  speak  ? 
Listen  to  Him." 

He  seemed  to  perceive,  when  she  had  made  this  answer, 
that  this  was  the  counsel  he  should  have  anticipated  ;  that 
she  could  not  really  venture  to  give  other  advice.  Then  he 
said  : 

"  I  will  write  to  you  about  it — I  thought  I  could  speak 

13* 


298  PETKR   CARRADINE. 

more  freely,  or  I  would  have  written  before.  You  do  not 
know,  I  think,  Miranda,  though  I  have  told  you  very  often, 
what  pleasure  your  letters  have  given  me." 

There  was  no  disguising  the  fact  that  both  the  minister 
and  Randy  gained  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  the  open  air  of 
common  topics  ;  having  precipitately  retired  from  the  con- 
fessional. 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  you  when  I  knew  you  must  be 
speaking  to  me  by  your  pen.  I  was  very  curious  to  know 
how  you  wrote  those  letters,  and  at  what  hours,  and  whether 
they  satisfied  you — for  they  were  remarkable,  I  think.  Won't 
you  tell  me  anything  more  about  them  ?" 

She  did  not  seem  to  be  surprised  by  the  question,  but  an- 
swered  with  apparent  indifference,  which  he  had  been 
blind  if  he  had  failed  to  see  was  feigned  and  impotent  : 

"  I  wrote  them  at  odd  hours — as  I  could  find  the  time. 
Sometimes  when  other  people  were  asleep — sometimes  early 
in  the  morning,  by  daybreak.  How  did  I  write  them  ?  I 
tried  to  do  my  best.  I  gave  you  my  best  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings ;  but  they  were  all  true,  and  not  got  up  for  the  occa- 
sion." 

"  I  believe  that.  And  there  were  many  things  I  wanted 
to  talk  over,  for  it  seems  to  me  you  have  hit  at  the  heart  of 
some  truths  that  I  did  not  possess  before.  You  don't  know 
what  hard  thinking  your  letters  have  compelled  me  to  give 
to  some  subjects  that  had  escaped  my  attention.  But  it 
will  not  do  to  get  on  that  train  to-night.  I  see  I  have  mis- 
sed the  early  cars.  It  does  not  matter  though  ;  I  could 
afford  that  since  it  has  given  me  a  chance  to  talk  with  you." 
He  arose  while  he  spoke  thus.  "  But  now  if  I  get  to  town 
before  dark,  I  must  say  good-bye  to  you.  And  I  shall 
write  to  you  again — I  may  ?" 

"  If  it  will  give  you  any  pleasure  ;"  she  answered,  rising 
also — perceiving  an  abruptness  in  his  leave-taking,  which 
mere  haste  could  not  accounnt  for. 

"  Grood-bye  then,  dear  sister."  he  said.  "  May  your  life 
as  a  Christian  and  as  a  woman  be  complete  !  Rounded  to  the 
fullest  human  joy.  May  you  never  be  able  to  say  that  your 
work  is  done.  God  keep  you,  and  the  man  of  your  choice  !  lead 
you  in  the  paths  of  his  choosing — save  you  with  his  almighty 
salvation.  Fray  for  me.  Ask  that  I  may  have  direction 


DEATH   IN    LIFE.  299 

from  on  high.  That  God  will  guide  me.  I  need  not  ask 
you  ! — my  sister  will  not  fail  me  in  this  sacred  work." 

"  No — never.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Collamer.  God  bless  you." 
The  words  came  from  her  as  from  him,  without  faltering, 
and  they  went  out  from  the  school-house  thus  blessing  one 
another. 

The  sun  had  set.  How  peaceful  was  the  scene  that  spread 
before  their  eyes  !  how  softly  fell  the  shadows  along  the 
meadow  lands.  How  the  the  swallows  flew  about !  There 
were  hundreds  of  them  fluttering  and  flying,  full  of  song! 
Masses  of  white  clouds,  dazzling  mountainous,  thundrous, 
floated  under  the  majestic  expanse. 

You  might  have  deemed  this  Martindale  the  veritable 
Happy  Valley. 

To  Mr.  Collamer  it  was  wondrous  fair — and  as  he  walked 
toward  Elder  Green's,  for  the  Elder  had  driven  the  minis- 
ter's horse  to  his  stable,  his  mind  dwelt  on  this  beauty,  and 
and  on  the  girl  from  whom  he  had  just  now  parted. 

The  sun  had  set — would  it  ever  rise  again  ?  Did  ever 
the  night  shadow  fall  over  our  earth  and  no  mortal  eye  be- 
hold it,  and  see  a  fitness  in  the  sable  shrouding  ?  fitness  at- 
tested by  the  sorrowing  heart  that  sat  in  sackcloth,  saying, 
will  the  sun  ever  rise  again  ?  Forgive,  ye  happy  ones ! 
Glory  ye  in  the  brightness  !  Let  no  one  cheat  you  of  the 
vision  !  Hear  ye  the  singing  of  the  birds,  the  cricket's  con- 
stant chirping.  It  is  the  veritable  sun  that  shines — and  ye 
can  see  the  splendor  of  the  rose  !  Fair  children !  loving 
hearts  !  be  blessed  to  life  !  And  sing  the  songs  of  faith, 
your  joy  transforms  to  knowledge  !  only,  with  the  patience 
of  angels,  be  ye  patient  with  the  sighing  ye  may  hear — the 
suffering  you  may  see.  And  give  of  your  joy  in  Heaven 
to  the  heaviness  that  groans  about  you. 

For  Miranda — while  she  went  her  solitary  way,  what  was 
she  saying  ?  He  had  left  her.  At  first  a  sense  of  relief 
too  full,  too  keen,  to  be  mistaken,  had  made  her  walk  along 
the  path  that  led  up  to  the  road,  with  rapid  steps — but  this 
sense  of  relief — that  burst  upward  as  a  fountain  unsealed, 
passed — the  rock  that  had  been  rolled  away  was  hurled  to  its 
place  again,  and  the  fountain  was  broken. 

At  last  she  left  the  the  path  and  entered  a  wood  on  the 
edge  of  the  hill.  What  meant  this  sudden  dread  of  com- 


300  PETER    CARRAD1NE. 

panionsliip  ?      She  sat  upon  the  grass  among  the  darkening 
shadows. 

"  Weary,  weary  life  !  God  take  me  out  of  it !  Let  me 
lie  under  the  sod  in  the  old  burying  ground.  For  why 
should  I  live  any  longer!"  and  the  image  of  Senior  Jobson 
did  not  rise  up  to  rebuke  her. 

"  What  have  I  to  do,  seeing  what  I  see  ?  what  have  I  to 
do  !  My  right  to  everything  is  gone.  There  is  nothing  but 
Heaven — and  Heaven  will  not  open  because  I  cry  at  the 
door."  Neither  did  the  image  of  her  father  rise  up  to  re- 
buke her.  "  Did  I  want  his  praise.  What  is  it  to  me  that 
he  says  I  write  letters  that  he  likes  ?  We  are  friends.  I 
am  his  sister.  I  am  glad  I  told  him  about  Mr.  Jobson.  I 
have  no  brother,  and  no  sister.  I  shall  have  both  by  him — 
he  promised,  He  promised  to  marry  us.  And  then  I  shall 
be  settled  in  the  tavern — and  all  will  be  easy.  I  will  do  my 
duty.  I  can  do  everything  for  Senior  that  he  expects — only 
— all  he  thinks  of — only — " 

Then,  as  you  have  seen  a  leaf  caught  by  the  wind,  and 
tossed  up,  and  driven  through  the  air,  poor  leaf  that  must 
surely  flutter  to  the  earth  again,  Randy  was  caught  up,  sud- 
denly and  without  remedy,  and  whirled  through  emotions, 
and  light  and  darkness,  till  she  fell  again  to  pray,  "  God  of 
Heaven  !  so  near,  yet  so  far  off !  if  my  voice  can  be  heard — 
if  thou  carest !  can'st  thou  care  for  anything  like  me  !  .... 

"  I  thank  thee  !  I  thank  thee  that  I  did  not  understand !  I 
bless  thee  that  he's  gone.  Don't  let  me  even  see  his  face 
again — or  hear  his  voice.  See,  oh  Saviour,  on  my  knees  I 
creep  back  from  the  abyss.  I  did  not  say  the  words  that 
would  have  made  me  false  to  Senior.  I  did  not  say  what 
might  have  made  trouble  for  some  other  woman.  Oh,  per- 
haps she  is  not  able  to  bear  sorrow  as  I  am,  or  to  feel  what 
I  feel,  or  to  wake  up,  as  I've  waked  up  !  Don't  ever  let  her 
know  such  sorrow  !  Put  all  this  on  me.  I  am  able  to  bear 
it !  And  because  I  say  to  thee  I  can  and  will,  and  promise 
here  to  bear  it,  and  to  be  true  to  Jobson,  thou  who  dost  sor 
row  in  our  sorrow,  thou  hast  said  it !  keep  every  other  wo 
man  this  day,  every  other  woman  in  the  world,  near  to  such 
grief,  safely,  safely  from  it !  Sorrow  is  in  this  world,  and 
thou  art  grieved  at  it.  But  I  can  endure.  Forgive  me. 
I  loved  him,  not  knowing  what  I  did.  I  did  not  understand 
it.  Oh,  forgive  me,  dear  Lord.  I  will  to  be  strong.  I 


DEATH    IN    LIFE.  301 

will  to  endure.  I  say  it  in  the  faith  that  thou  wilt  hear  and 
help  me.  Oh  roll  away  the  stone  from  other  hearts  that 
shuts  them  up  like  bodies  in  a  tomb.  I  will  lie  still  till  the 
last  trump,  if  only  thou  wilt  have  pity  on  some  other  woman 
suffering  like  me,  and  bring  her  out  of  sorrow  into  peace, 
where  she  may  dare  to  feel  the  life  of  love  !" 

She  ended  her  praying  in  a  sudden  burst  of  tears.  Nor 
you  nor  I  can  know  how  many  hearts  in  that  same  hour, 
standing  free  of  the  burden  that  had  crushed  and  blinded 
them,  lifted  their  voices  in  ransomed  joy,  saying — 

"  God,  I  thank  thee,  who,  beyond  my  hope,  oh,  beyond  all 
deserving,  hast,  by  thine  own  hand  led  me  to  this  hour !" 


302  PETER   CAERADINE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

''FOR      BETTER,      FOR      WORSE.  '  : 

THERE  was  one  day  a  wedding  in  one  of  the  houses  of 
Martindale,  and  a  goodly  portion  of  the  neighborhood  came 
together,  witnesses  of  the  ceremony,  and  partakers  of  the 
feast. 

Widow  Savage  and  her  daughters,  Helen,  and  Ann  Maria, 
were  among  the  guests,  and  the  sisters  of  Oliver  were  quite 
the  prettiest  of  the  company,  though  no  one  seemed  to  think 
so.  Perhaps  it  was  indignant  observation  of  the  fact,  and 
that  they  sat  crushed  into  a  corner  in  spite  of  their  new 
dresses,  that  made  Sally  Green  conspicuously  kind  to  them 
when  they  walked  with  others  out  into  the  grove,  shy,  and 
hanging  back,  apparently  forgotten  by  their  brother. 

Recently  Oliver  had  invited  Sally  to  go  home  with  him 
some  day  and  visit  his  family — and  now,  when  the  feast  was 
over,  and  the  company  dispersing,  she  bethought  of  her 
promise,  and  looked  around  for  widow  Savage.  But  she  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  For  a  little  longer,  therefore,  Sally 
made  herself  useful  in  her  peculiar  way — then  she  quietly 
walked  off;  and  anticipating  that  her  father's  house,  by  this 
time,  swarmed  with  company,  she  determined  that  she 
would  go  alone  in  search  of  Oliver's  mother.  Probably  she 
had  gone  homeward — and  if  so,  she  could  easy  overtake  her, 
for  the  farm  was  two  miles  distant. 

It  lay  on  the  north  side  of  a  cross  road — and  the  way  was 
new  to  Sally  ;  the  way  besides  was  rough,  and  her  feet  ill- 
shod. 

But  having  set  out  in  it,  she,  of  course,  would  not  turn 
back. 

She  had  ample  time  to  think,  as  she  went  her  way,  where- 


"FOR  BETTER,  FOR  WORSE."  303 

fore  was  she  going ;  and  what  should  be  the  nature  of  this 
interview.  The  mood  in  which  she  set  out  on  her  walk  was 
such  as  disposed  her  to  regard  with  favor  whatever  revela- 
tion might  be  made  in  this  poor  house.  As  she  approached 
the  house,  the  very  isolation  of  its  situation,  its  lowliness, 
had  a  sort  of  charm  for  her  wayward  heart.  Here,  it  might 
be,  she  should  at  length  find  refuge  !  The  sooner  she 
sought  it  here  the  better,  perhaps.  She  was  almost  per- 
suaded that  it  would  be  best  to  acknowledge  this  day  to 
widow  Savage,  the  relation  in  which  she  stood  to  her  son. 
That  perhaps  it  would  be  wise,  now  that  she  was  coming  to 
the  house,  to  ask  for  a  home  in  it.  Her  father — sooner  or 
later,  he  must  know  what  she  had  done.  An  unwise  thing 
— it  might  be — but  how  to  be  made  the  best  of!  and  if  Oli- 
ver only  had  a  chance  once  in  the  world  ! 

With  such  suggestions  revolving  in  her  mind,  she  arrived 
at  the  cottage,  undecided  as  to  what  should  be  said  and  done 
when  she  had  crossed  the  threshold  and  stood  among  the 
family. 

Now  it  had  happened  to  Oliver,  that  as  day  by  day  he 
passed  Mr.  Carradine's  place,  while  the  improvements  were 
going  on  there,  the  rage  for  improvement  had  seized  him. 
Day  by  day  his  old  house  grew  more  more  shabby  to  his 
eyes.  He  thought  of  Sally,  and  his  pride  took  fright.  So 
when  the  white-washers  and  paper-hangers  had  embellished 
the  red  farm  house,  and  the  cottage  to  which  the  Johnsons' 
were  to  remove,  Oliver  determined  that  they  should  per- 
form their  magic  under  his  mother's  roof. 

And  as  the  business  of  these  decorators  was  to  take  a  job 
wherever  they  could  find  one,  and  a  man's  money  was  as 
good  as  his  neighbor's,  the  white-washers,  paper-hangers, 
painters,  brought  their  tools  down  to  the  Savage  farm,  and 
transformed  the  place  into  its  present  pretty  aspect — • 
whereat  Sally  stood  amazed.  For  it  looked  like  a  very 
bower  of  beauty,  when  compared  with  her  expectation. 
Why  Love  seemed  to  have  settled  himself  there,  and  he 
peeped  on  the  girl,  and  he  saluted  her,  as  she  stood  on  the 
steps  looking  into  the  house  and  around  her,  with  smiles  full 
of  promises. 

This,  then,  was  poor  Oliver's  house !  She  thought  of 
him  tenderly,  and  with  self-reproach.  Had  he  done  all 


304  PETER   CARRADINE. 

this  for  her  ?  Poor  fellow  !  how  had  he  contrived  to  man- 
age it  ? 

She  would  like  her  father  to  see!  her  father  who  regarded 
every  dollar  put  upon  the  house  in  the  way  of  decoration,  or 
of  convenience,  as  so  much  money  thrown  away.  She  would 
like  him  to  come  up  and  see  this  white  cottage  so  pure  and 
sweet,  and  pretty.  She  thought  she  should  then  need  to  use 
bss  argument  in  favor  of  the  external  decoration  of  the  old 
brown  farm-house  that  stood  sentinelled  by  poplars. 

There  were  a  great  many  things  that  Sally  could  have 
said  to  Mrs.  Savage — but  alas  !  She  found  the  house  quite 
deserted,  and  though  she  walked  about  it,  and  within,  and 
sat  down,  and  stood  up,  and  lingered,  no  one  came,  and 
there  was  no  sign  given  her  that  anybody  ever  meant  to 
come. 

And,  on  the  whole,  glad  that  the  visit  had  ended  pre- 
cisely thus,  Sally,  who  did  never,  in  spite  of  waywardness, 
altogether  knew  her  own  mind  and  wishes,  left  the  house, 
and  took  the  road  home,  and  arrived  at  her  father's  house 
without  having  met  a  solitary  creature. 

For  the  past  hour  her  father  had  been  anxiously  looking 
out  for  her  return  ;  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep  he  was  at  his 
office  door ;  twice  to  his  wife,  and  once  to  his  mother,  he  had 
said — 

"  I  thought  it  was  Sally.  When  Sally  comes  I  want  her," 
and  at  last  when  she  came,  he  saw  her  pass  the  office  win- 
dow, and  opened  the  door  that  was  so  rarely  opened,  and 
said — 

"  Come  in.     I  want  you." 

He  had,  hours  ago,  taken  off  his  dress  coat,  and  was  now 
in  his  everyday  garments,  but  not  in  his  everyday  guise  ; 
an  extraordinary  perplexity  was  manifest  in  his  every  look 
and  gesture.  When  the  wedding  was  over  he  came  away 
with  a  mere  look  at  the  feast  prepared,  a  mere  word  with  the 
bride  and  bridegroom.  And  since  then  he  had  been  waiting 
for  Sally. 

He  had  his  papers  on  the  desk  before  him,  loosely  spread 
about.  Business,  then  !  That  assurance  was  a  great  relief 
to  her ;  for  when  she  saw  his  face  and  heard  his  voice  she 
trembled,  and  said  to  herself,  "  He  knows  all."  But  now  she 
said : 

"  Some  work  to  be  done  ?"  with  the  cheerful  alacrity  of 


<;FOR   BETTER,    FOR   WORSE."  305 

one  who  is  suddenly  relieved  of  a  great  fear  and  trouble — 
enabled  so  to  see  the  mere  nothingness  of  mere  labor. 

"  Bad  work,"  said  he,  sitting  down  on  his  high  stool  and 
taking  up  a  scrap  of  paper,  on  which  some  words  were  writ- 
ten. "There — that's  Savage's  writing,  isn't  it?  One  of 
the  painters  who  has  been  working  for  him  said  it  was." 

"  Then  why  do  you  ask  me,  father  ?"  asked  Sally,  looking 
a  very  natural  surprise — but  she  glanced  at  the  paper, 
though  her  first  purpose  had  seemed  to  be  to  return  it  with- 
out so  much  as  a  glance. 

"  Because,  in  such  business,  one  can't  be  too  sure.  Have 
you  seen  Oliver,  to-day  ?" 

"  He  was  at  the  wedding,  father." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  since  ?" 

"  No." 

"  No  ?" 

"  I  did  not  go  away  until  nearly  every  one  had  left,  I 
think.  I  took  a  long  walk.  I  was  alone.  I  have  not  seen 
him.  Why  !  did  you  think  I  had  seen  him,  father  ?>J 

"  I — I  am  afraid,  Sally,  that  Oliver — he  is  a  dangerous 
young  man  to  have  around  !  I  began  to  think  we  had 
wronged  him ;  that  he  was  better  than  he  seemed — " 

"  He  is  !"  said  Sally. 

"  No,  he's  worse.  He's  worse,  my  daughter  ;  ten  hun- 
dred times  !  Here  he's  been  forging  my  notes — two  of  'em 
— a  hundred  dollars  each." 

Sally  gasped  for  breath.  Her  father  thought :  "  It's  se- 
vere, but  this  will  cure  her.  I  could  afford  to  to  pay  two 
hundred  dollars  to  have  poor  Sally  cured.  I  won't  be  hard 
on  Oliver.'' 

"  I  thought,"  said  he,  "  I  could  talk  with  you  easier  than 
your  mother.  For  what  is  one  to  do  ?  If  I  don't  pay  the 
money,  you  know  what  comes  next." 

"  What  comes  next?"  groaned  Sally 

"Prison  !" 

"Prison,  father?" 

"  Yes  ;  that's  the  penalty.  And  the  proof  is  clear  as  day 
Here's  his  writing — there's  himself.  I've  waited  here  all 
the  afternoon  to  talk  with  you  about  it.  For  I  said  to  my 
self,  Sally  is  always  my  adviser  in  business.  I  won't  act  on 
my  own  opinion." 

"  If  you  did,  father,  what  would  you  do  ?" 


306  PETER   CARRADINE. 

"  Put  him  where  there  wouldn't  lie  danger  of  his  doing 
the  like  of  this  again.  For  it  would  be  the  kindest  thing 
that  I  could  do.  He's  a  man  not  safe  to  be  at  large — you 
can't  trust  the  fellow  but  of  sight.  If  it  wasn't  for  his  mo- 
ther being  a  widow,  and  his  being  in  the  fellowship  of  the 
church — " 

"  Yes — yes,  father,  since  he  is  a  widow's  son,  and  a  profes- 
sor, what  now  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  That's  what  you  must  help  me  to  decide  about,"  said  he.! 
"  Look  on  all  sides  of  it,  daughter.  Two  can  judge  the  mat-' 
ter  better  than  one." 

She  sat  in  silence,  and  he  did  not  urge  her  answer.  He 
gave  her  time  to  think.  He  guessed  that,  not  without  a 
struggle,  she  would  come  to  a  decision.  He  believed  she 
had  some  tender  feeling  for  Oliver.  He  would  be  patient 
with  her  ;  he  would  be  gentle.  He  feared  that  his  words 
had  fallen  on  her  as  a  dreadful  blow  ;  in  spite  of  love,  he, 
her  father,  had  delivered  it,  and  he  had  seen  it  fall — and  it 
had  crushed  her  !  But,  now  that  she  knew  Oliver,  as  she 
could  not  have  known  him  before,  now  she  would  understand 
her  father's  heart !  She  would  surely  appreciate  that  kind- 
ness which  had  chosen  her,  and  none  other  of  the  house,  not 
wife,  not  mother,  but  child,  to  confide  in — to  counsel  with. 


TILL   DEATH   DO   US   PART."  307 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 


'TILL    DEATH    us    DO    PART. 

WHEN  he  saw  Sarah  struggling  against  the  feeling  which 
raged  within  her,  he  thought  he  understood  it ;  and  he  saw 
that  it  would  prostrate  her  ;  he  therefore  stepped  to  his 
office  door  and  locked  it.  Upon  that  hour  there  must  he  no 
intrusion.  Then  he  walked  off  in  to  a  corner,  and  sat  down, 
and  wiped  his  eyes — and  through  the  silence  of  the  room 
was  only  heard  the  sound  of  Sally's  sohbing  breath,  the  signs 
of  the  grief  with  which  she  wrestled.  The  sight  grew  terri- 
ble to  him,  he  turned  away  his  face  into  the  dark  corner  and 
prayed,  thinking  of  Jacob  who  wrestled  with  the  angel,  hop- 
ing that  it  might  prove  in  the  end  that  an  angel  now  wrestled 
with  and  conquered  his  daughter  ! 

But  she  ! — Oh,  pride,  and  shame,  and  wrath,  what  angel 
force  was  hid  in  your  terrific  mutiny  ? 

What  should  she  do  1  Whither  turn  ?  Was  this  the 
hour  for  confession  ?  This  a  moment  to  own  that  she  had 
wrought  out  in  secret  her  own  purpose  ;  and  the  man  for 
whom  she  had  sacrificed  the  wishes,  and  the  hopes  of  every 
$oul  that  loved  her,  was  it  he  that  stood  thus  covered  with 
disgrace,  and  fronting  ruin  thus  ! 

Her  pride  rebelled  against  confession. 

Then  plead  for  him  ?  This,  indeed,  she  might  do,  and 
perhaps  with  success.  This  she  would  do — must  do.  But 
what  should  follow  after  ?  Why  delay  confession  any 
longer  ?  She  could  go  with  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth — 
or  to  his  mother's  house  !  But  with  him  ?  In  that  hour 
every  fond  feeling  she  had  ever  felt  for  him  was  under  an 
arrest.  She  would  confess.  Then — 

So,  at  length  she  controlled  herself  sufficiently  to  speak. 


808  PETER   CARRADINE, 

She  looked  around  her — saw  her  father,  where  he  sat  in  the 
dark  corner  of  the  room.  He  heard  her  move,  and  he 
sprung  to  his  feet — he  drew  near  to  his  child. 

"  Father,  find  him — bring  him  in  here.  We  will  end  the 
matter." 

"  But  how  shall  we  end-'lt  ?"  said  he,  lingering,  deter- 
mined first  to  come  to  an  explanation  with  her.  For  he  saw 
that  there  was  something  that  must  be  explained. 

"  You  mean  to  forgive  him.  Bring  him  in  here.  Show 
him  what  he  has  done,  and  that  he  is  discovered — " 

"  And  that  will  make  an  end  of  't  ?" 

"  Of  all  this— yes." 

"  I'll  go  with  you  in  it,"  said  he.  "  If  anything  can  save 
him  this  will.  But  what  do  you  suppose  will  become  of 
him  ?" 

"  What  do  you  suppose  will  become  of  any  of  us,  father  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  he.  "You're  right.  It's  the  mercy  of 
God  we're  all  looking  for." 

"  And  for  forgiveness  as  we  forgive." 

"  True.  But  there's  justice  that  must  be  done  sometimes. 
It  wouldn't  do — " 

Elder  Green  was  looking  from  the  window  as  he  spoke — 
he  stopped  sport,  unlocked  the  door,  and  called  out  : 

"  Oliver,  come  in  here." 

If  there  was  anything  unusual  in  the  Elder's  voice,  it  was 
not  a  harsh  tone,  but  a  gentler  than  seemed  natural. 

Oliver  obeyed.  But,  when  he  saw  Sally  in  the  office, 
seemed  to  be  taken  aback.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  and 
her  face  was  averted.  What  had  already  taken  place  in 
the  room  was  as  far  beyond  his  conjecture  as  beyond  his  ap- 
preciation. 

But  he  was  not  entirely  at  ease — he  was  hopeful — he  was 
always  hopeful ;  still — 

"  Oliver,"  said  Elder  Green,  "  there's  something  wrong 
here.  You  have  been  playing  me  false." 

"  What's  that,  sir  ?"  There  was  still  hope  as  well  as  ap- 
prehension in  the  young  man's  mind.  Possibly  Sally  had 
confessed  the  marriage — he  had  some  reason  for  believing 
that  she  had.  It  was  now  autumn,  and  she  had  promised 
that,  when  the  fall  harvest  was  over,  all  should  be  revealed  ; 
and  he  had  been  on  good  behavior  now  these  many  weeks  ; 
and  she  had  been  kind  to  him  whenever  it  chanced  that 


"  TILL   DEATH   DO   US   PART."  309 

they  could  have  a  word  or  two  together.  So,  in  spite  of 
apprehension,  he  was  hopeful. 

"  What's  that,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"  For  two  hundred  dollars;  that's  what  you  threw  away 
your  good  Christian  name  for  !  To  say  nothing  of  risking  a 
prison." 

Oliver's  face  whitened  to  a  deathly  whiteness.  A  prison ! 
— a  Christian  name  !  Then  all  was  discovered.  Not  the 
marriage  1  He  looked  at  Sally ;  he  could  not  command  a 
word. 

"  You  know  what  I  refer  to.  Unless  I  pay  those  notes 
there's  no  way  for  you  but  one — it's  a  State's  prison  offence. 
You've  ventured  on,  young  man,  a  dreadful,  terrible  way! 
But  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  a  trouble  it  would  be  to 
your  poor  mother,  and  your  little  sisters,  and  though  you 
might  be  saved  from  worse  temptations,  for  the  way  of  trans- 
gression is  so  dreadful  easy  if  but  once  you  set  your  feet 
therein,  I  have  concluded  to  pay  the  money,  sir,  and  let 
you  off — but  on  one  condition." 

When  Elder  Green  had  arrived  at  this  point  he  paused. 
Breathless  silence  through  the  little  room.  Sally  never 
moved.  Oliver  thought,  she  knows  what's  to  come  next ; 
but  he  did  not  lift  his  eyes  ;  she  did  not  move  by  so  much  as 
a  hand's  breadth  from  her  place. 

"  I'm  thinking,"  said  Elder  Green,  "you  will  not  care 
about  staying  in  this  neighborhood  after  what  has  happened. 
And  perhaps  you're  not  able  to  get  off  without  help — "  he 
paused,  but  Oliver  gave  no  sign  of  intending  to  answer  this 
point,  "  and  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  your  mother  and 
your  sisters  just  to  have  you  gone.  I'll  help  you  off.  I'll 
do  anything  you  need  in  that  way.  Go — go  where  you  can 
make  a  good  reputation  for  yourself — where  you  won't  feel 
that  every  man  and  woman  who  looks  at  you  is  suspecting 
of  you.  Go  and  earn  a  good  man's  name,  Oliver.  You're 
young  yet." 

"  And  now,"  thought  Elder  Green,  "I  have  ended  the 
business  for  these  young  people  forever." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him,  and  amid  all  the  agitations  of  the  moment  this 
satisfied  him,  that  his  darling  was  now  safe. 

A  strange  sort  of  courage,  rather  a  bold  resolve  to  stand 
upon  his  rights  here  in  this  house,  from  this  moment,  pos- 


310  PETER    CARKADIXE. 

sessed  the  mind  of  Oliver.  Every  grain  of  sense,  every 
atom  of  pride  and  of  vanity,  was  urged  into  the  instant's  ser- 
vice. He  prepared  to  speak. 

Just  then,  as  if  some  admonition  of  his  swiftly  concentrat- 
ing purpose  telegraphed  itself  to  Sally,  she  looked  up,  and 
saw  that,  though  his  face  was  pale,  a  desperate  resolution 
had  taken  the  place  of  fear.  She  started  up,  put  forth  her 
hand  as  if  to  stay  him,  and  that  before  a  word  had  escaped 
him. 

And  there  stood  Elder  Green,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other.  He  saw  the  deprecating  sign,  and  the  corresponding 
glance  of  defiance,  and  he  heard  : 

"  Elder  Green,  I'm  willing  to  quit  Martindell.  Of  course 
you  won't  object  to  my  taking  my  wife  with  me.  I  mean 
Sally  there." 

"  Fool!"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Great  God!"  cried  Elder  Green,  and  he  lifted  up  both 
hands,  and  staggered  back,  and  fell  against  the  old  high 
desk. 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  the  very  consciousness  of  how  this 
blow  had  struck  him,  how  powerless  it  made  him,  acted  on 
the  father  with  a  restoring  power.  He  put  off  the  aid  that 
would  have  brought  him  to  a  seat ;  he  stood  upright  in  his 
wrath  and  pain ;  and  he  looked  upon  the  girl — upon  his 
Sally.  Of  her  alone  he  seemed  thoughtful — with  her  alone 
he  had  to  do.  She  had  deceived  him !  His  darling,  his 
pride,  had  robbed  him,  lied  to  him,  thrown  her  life  away  for 
this  poor,  paltry  coward  !-— her  beautiful  young  life  ! — the 
life  on  which  he  would  have  lavished  all  good  things  in  his 
power  to  bestow — she  had  stooped  to  this  ! 

"  Father  !"she  said,  for  his  silence  was  more  than  she  could 
endure — she  had  shrunk  and  quailed  under  his  fixed  glance, 
until  this  cry  broke  from  her,  appealing,  piteous.  But  he  an- 
swered: 

"Call  me  by  some  other  name.  I  have  not  been  to  you 
a  father.  Forget  you  ever  called  me  father.  What  have  you 
to  say  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Has  he  spoken  the  truth  ?  You  see  I  can't  believe 
him.  He  has  deceived  me  too  often.  And  you — you  too, 
deceitful ;  but  if  you  own  to  this  I  must  believe  it.  Yes  or 
no  ?  His  wife,  Sally,  or  not  ?" 


"TILL  DEATH  DO  us  PART."  311 

She  hesitated  a  moment ;  she  looked  across  the  room  to 
where  Oliver  stood.  Oh,  impassable  gulf  that  rolled  between 
them  !  But  she  crossed  it — by  a  step — and  stood  beside 
him. 

"  I'm  answered,"  said  the  old  man,  and  he  looked  around 
him  as  if  seeking  somewhat,  help  perhaps  ;'  but  there  he 
stood  alone — for  he  was  forsaken  of  his  child. 

"  When  was  it?"  he  asked. 

"  On  the  Fourth  of  July,  at  Brighton — before  we  came 
and  joined  you  on  the  Square.  Sally  has  her  certificate  and 
her  ring.  See  here,  sir.''  Oliver  held  up  the  hand  that 
wore  £he  ring — her  father  saw — it  was  enough. 

"  On  the  Fourth  of  July — rings — certificate.  Well, 
Sally,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  now  1" 

"  Live  up  to  my  agreement,  father,5'  she  answered. 

There  was  now  but  one  path  to  be  taken  by  her — whither 
it  would  lead  she  could  not  see.  But  at  least  the  marriage 
must  be  acknowledged,  and  her  father  would  surely  prevent 
the  threatened  exposure.  There  was  now  no  danger  that 
Oliver's  crime  would  be  discovered.  That  shame  they  would 
all  be  spared. 

But  in  that  hour  she  thought  she  had  wholly  undeceived 
herself.  The  man  by  whose  side  she  stood  had  no  more 
power  over  her !  She  was  wholly  undeceived !  Never 
again  would  the  conflict  be  renewed  between  her  conscience 
and  her  heart !  She  never  could  delude  herself  with  the 
thought  that  she  loved  him  !  Mercilessly  she  stood  prepared 
to  judge  herself  and  him.  But  for  one  moment  she  had 
ranged  herself  with  him.  There,  for  the  present,  she  could 
stand.  Yes,  for  one  moment !  But  the  next — she  threw 
herself  on  the  floor  at  her  father's  feet,  and  poor,  miserable 
Oliver  said  to  himself,  complacently  : 

"  Now  she's  got  the  old  man.  That's  the  way  to  manage 
it !  It's  all  coming  round  right,  just  as  I  knew  it  would, 
and  told  her,"  and  he  was  not  at  all  dismayed  when  Elder 
Green,  instead  of  stooping  to  lift  his  repentant  daughter  to 
his  bosom,  walked  off  and  left  her  where  she  knelt,  till  he 
had  put  the  distance  of  the  room  between  them — then  he 
said  : 

"  What  is  it  you  are  going  to  do  next  ?      You  two  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered,  for  both ;    "  nothing,  till  you 


312  PETER  CARRADINE. 

forgive  me.  Then — if  you  will  have  it — I'll  choose  between 
you  and  him." 

•'  Well,  get  up.  But  don't  come  near  me.  Sit  down 
there.  Now  speak.  You'll  choose  between  me  and  him  ? 
That's  what  you've  done  already.  You've  chosen.  You 
must  bide  by  it — bide  by  it,  Sally  !  Marriage  is  God's  ordi- 
nance— it  isn't  the  law  that  could  set  you  free,  if  that  was 
your  choice.  You're  that  man's  wife,  afore  God,  if  it's  true 
what  you  tell  me.  You've  told  me,  both  of  you,  things  far 
enough  from  truth.  I  wish  this  might  be  a  falsehood,  I  wish, 
for  once,  you  wasn't  true,  true,  Sally.  But  you're  his  wife — 
if  you  can  keep  him  to  his  contract — " 

"  It  isn't  true,  it  can't  be,"  she  cried.  "  He  said  I*could 
save  him,  and  I  thought  I  loved  him.  But  I  can't  save  him, 
and  he's  killed  all  the  love  I  ever  had  for  him  !" 

"  God  have  mercy  on  you  !"  cried  poor  Elder  Green,  ut- 
terly bewildered.  "  There  ought  to  be  a  woman — I'll  go 
call  in  your  mother." 

But  Sally  stopped  him  by  a  word. 

"  Wait !"  And  ho  sat  down  again,  hopeless,  and  yet  ex- 
pecting, and  repeated  her  word,  "  Wait  ?" 

She  seemed  to  take  it,  as  it  came  from  him,  and  did  delay 
what  she  had  to  speak.  All  the  while  her  face  was  turned 
toward  him,  not  once  toward  Oliver,  she  seemed  to  be  aware 
of  his  presence  alone.  Now  she  said  : 

"  You  may  send  me  off,  father — but  I'll  never  go  with 
him — it's  been  a  rough  road  to  me  since  the  Fourth.  If  I  be- 
lieved in  him  at  all  then,  or  loved  him  at  all,  it's  over  now — 
and  it  would  be  a  sin  to  leave  you  for  him.  For  I  love  you. 
And  him  I  hate — I  hate  !" 

"  You  did  it — you  did  it — you  left  me  for  him,"  said  the 
Elder.  "  There's  a  thing  that's  done  and  can't  be  helped — 
never  !  Oh,  my  girl !" 

But  she  had  gained  a  point,  gained  some  degree  of  self- 
control,  and  she  advanced  upon  it  with  a  confidence  new 
even  to  her  ;  a  confidence  which  could  not  fail  of  its  influence 
on  those  who  witnessed  it.  Calmly  she  tried  to  speak — and 
to  those  who  heard  her,  the  voice  had  a  calm  sound. 

"  If  I  went  with  him — or  if  he  stayed  here  with  you — I 
know  how  it  would  be  ;  dreadful  for  him  and  for  me — worse 
for  us  than  for  you,  father,  So  I  say  to  you,  Oliver,  go,  if 
you  are  wise.  Don't  lose  a  day  Take  anything  for  your 


"TILL  DEATH  DO  us  PART."  813 

portion,  sooner  than  such  a  wife  as  I  should  make  you.  I 
warn  you — there's  nothing  in  you  draws  me  to  you — there's 
everything  in  me  should  make  you  flj  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  sooner  than  stay  with  me.  I'm  not  what  I  was.  I'm 
not  what  I  was  when  you  saw  me  down  there  at  the  school- 
house,  this  morning.  If  I  was,  I  couldn't  say  such  things — 
there  wouldn't  be  any  truth.  I  did  love  you — truly  I  did — 
but — don't  ask  me  if  I  do  that  now." 

While  she  was  speaking,  the  strong  voice  with  which  she 
spoke,  as  much  as  the  words  she  uttered,  had  caused  the 
Elder's  soul  to  revive  within  him.  What  she  had  said 
about  the  terrible  things  that  might  happen  if  she  went  with 
Oliver  appalled  him.  Poor  young  thing — daughter  so  ten- 
derly cared  for — daughter  in  whom  his  pride  was  all  cen- 
tered, whom,  above  all  things,  he  loved — what  terrible 
future  was  she  gazing  at  with  those  dear  eyes  ?  He  stood 
forward  with  a  parent's  instinct,  and  a  man's  generosity,  to 
rescue  an  imperilled  woman — forgetful  of  what  he  had  just 
now  said  of  the  inexpungable  authority  of  the  matrimonial 
vow. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?"  he  said.     "  Do  you  hear,  Oliver  ?" 

"  She  is  my  wife,"  answered  the  young  man,  planting  one 
foot  firmly  before  the  other,  as  if  he  would  assert  that  on 
that  ground  he  based  his  claims,  and  did  need  no  other. 
She  is  of  age.  She  married  me  of  her  free  will." 

They  all  reflected  on  those  words.  Then  said  the  Elder 
— all  that  a  man  hath  will  he  give  for  his  life,  and  she  was 
the  life  of  him  : 

"  If  Sally  means  what  she  has  said,  and  I  think  no  man 
could  doubt  it,  I  could  take  the  case  into  the  courts  and  get 
a  divorce,  and  let  you  pay  the  costs  ;  or  you  might  stand 
trial  for  forgery,  be  convicted,  sentenced  to  State's  prison, 
and  your  marriage  would  not  hold  good  a  day  longer,  unless 
she  chose  to  consider  it  binding.  But  you  are  a  young  man, 
Oliver — and  I  was  a  friend  to  your  father,  and  I'll  not  be 
hard  on  you — you,  who  are  so  cruel  to  yourself!  You  shall 
go  off!  I'll  help  you  to  get  away.  I'll  give  you  money  to 
go  with.  I'll  give  you  enough  to  support  you  till  you  can 
find  employment  somewhere.  You  can  go  to  Australia ! 
But  it's  on  this  condition  I  set  you  free,  that  you  never 
come  back  again  !  Go,  and  make  your  fortune,  if  the  recol- 
lection of  what  you  have  done  will  prevent  your  enjoying  it 

14 


314  PETER   CARRADINE. 

— there  are  your  mother  and  sisters  ;  work  for  them.  It 
isn't  too  late  yet.  You're  young." 

No  manner  of  wr^h  or  sullenness  would  avail  him  ;  no 
attempt  to  defeat  the  purpose  of  Elder  Green,  who  had  evi- 
dently now  taken  the  business  in  hand  with  the  determina- 
tion to  carry  out  his  purpose  to  the  end,  would  avail  him. 
The  only  thing  he  could  do  was  to  make  the  best  bargain 
possible  to  make.  Yet  he  muttered  it  was  hard  a  man 
shouldn't  have  his  liberty  to  do  what  he  chose  with  himself, 
and  go  or  stay,  as  he  pleased.  Whereto  Elder  Green  an- 
swered : 

"  No  more  of  that.  You  have  earned  a  prison,  and  it's 
yours  of  right.  Don't  talk  about  liberty — I'm  not  taking  it 
from  you,  but  giving  it  to  you.  Hemember  that  all  your 
days.  Remember  that  your  father's  friend,  when  you'd 
cheated  and  robbed  him,  gave  you  your  liberty,  and  a  chance 
to  prove  that  there  was  more  good  in  you  than  you  ever 
showed  to  him  or  to  any  one.  Five  hundred  dollars  for 
your  passage,  two  hundred  besides,  and  your  word  that  this 
is  the  last  we  shall  ever  sec  of  you  in  Martindell." 

Then  he  whimpered — said  something  grievous  about  his 
mother  and  his  sisters.  But  again  he  was  reminded  of  the 
walls  he  had  put  between  them,  the  grates  and  the  bars ; 
and  bidden  to  take  his  choice  once  more. 

All  this  while  Sally  sat  motionless  and  dumb,  and  Oliver 
dared  not  appeal  to  her.  He  began  to  cry  outright,  but 
Elder  Green  said  : 

"  Sally,  go  and  pack  my  trunk — the  hair  trunk  that  has  a 
lock.  Put  in  three  shirts,  and  my  socks  and  handkerchers. 
Oliver,  I'll  go  with  you  to  secure  your  passage.  Sit  down 
at  that  table  and  write  good-bye  to  your  mother.  Tell  her 
you  have  got  a  chance  to  go  to  Australia,  and  you  spare  her 
the  pain  of  a  parting. 

The  Elder  followed  Sally  from  the  room,  and  locked 
the  door  behind  him,  leaving  Oliver  seated,  where  he  sat 
in  dumb  silence  for  the  next  half-hour. 


OLD    THINGS    BECOMING    NEW.  315 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 


OLD      THINGS      BECOMING      NEW. 

Miss  FULLER  sits  in  her  room  in  the  widow  Prebble's 
home.  It  has  been  her  home  during  the  past  fortnight. 
She  saw  from  its  windows  at  sunset  that  the  frost  had 
touched  the  maples,  that  the  fields  were  brown  and  bare, 
that  the  orchards  spoke  of  winter  firesides,  and  the  long  eve- 
nings coming.  She  had  met  Miranda  in  her  homeward  walk, 
and  Miranda's  face  was  grave  with  a  gravity  so  unusual  to 
her,  she  had  felt  a  friendly  right,  and  had  sought  to  know 
what  care  or  trouble  it  might  be,  that  disturbed  her. 

But  Miranda  had  shrunk  away  from  the  friendly  touch, 
and  folded  her  arms  as  if  to  hide  the  wound  in  her  heart. 
And  she  did  hide  it.  She  spoke  with  too  much  sincere  gra- 
titude of  Mr.  Carradine's  endeavors  to  make  good  her  fath- 
er's loss,  too  gratefully  of  the  result  in  the  kindly  simple 
nature  of  the  gentle-hearted  old  man,  to  leave  a  doubt  in  the 
mind  of  Mercy  that  the  suspicion  of  others  had  poisoned 
Randy's  mind  ;  she  at  least  had  no  belief  that  the  Carradine 
gift  of  heifers  was  the  gift  of  malice,  and  the  work  of  dev- 
iltry. 

They  had  talked  of  many  things — their  talk  could  be  but 
friendly — yet  Miranda  seemed  far  from  Mercy  that  night — 
without  holding  herself  at  a  distance  by  cold  word,  or  grace- 
less act,  she  was  out  of  Mercy's  reach.  Only  because  in  an 
isolation,  beyond  all  human  reach. 

Mercy  offered  her  books  to  read,  a  review  that  had  just 
come  to  her — no.  She  refused  the  newspaper  too,  until  she 
recollected  that  to  hear  of  the  world's  doings  might  amuse 
her  father ;  then  she  revoked  her  refusal,  and  said  she 
would  return  the  sheet  next  morning. 


316  PETER    CARRADINE. 

So  she  had  gone  home  ;  but  Mercy,  who  had  seen  her  go, 
found  that  she  did  not  out  of  her  thoughts  depart. 

It  pleased  her  to  recall  what  Miranda  had  said  about  Mr. 
Carradine.  Mercy  dwelt  on  the  fact  so  clear,  that  in  men- 
tioning him  Randy  had  spoken  with  increasing  freedom,  as 
one  oppressed  with  secret  thoughts  should  speak  of  events 
that  interested,  and  yet  did  in  no  wise  concern  her,  escap- 
ing so  the  tyranny  of  a  hidden  grief.  All  was  right,  and 
fair,  and  clear,  in  the  Ray  and  Carradine  business. 

It  eased  the  heart  of  Mercy,  it  eased  her  mind,  shall  I  ra- 
ther say,  to  recall  this  manifest  fact. 

Mr.  Collamer  who  brought  her  the  books,  and  a  message 
from  Horatio,  had  spoken  to  her  of  Miranda.  Had  begged 
her,  with  that  earnestness  which  was  his  peculiar,  his  fasci- 
nating power,  to  befriend  Miranda  ;  for,  said  he,  she  is  no 
ordinary  country  girl.  "  I  do  not,"  he  said,  "  place  the 
value  some  may  on  culture,  excessive  culture.  There  are 
degrees  of  refinement  undesirable,  to  my  mind.  But  she  is 
incapable  of  them.  A  better  culture,  however,  would  set 
her  in  a  new  light,  and  I  covet  that  light  for  her.  Even 
here  in  Martindale,"  he  said,  "  you  see  what  she  has  be- 
come. And  there  are  influences  here  that  would  work  for 
her  wonderfully,  if  she  could  be  once  brought  fairly  within 
their  control." 

And  Mercy  had  answered, 

"  Miranda  and  I  are  good  friends,  of  long  standing.  She 
will  grow  and  develop  a  long  while  yet.  One  must  not  be 
in  haste  where  such  as  she  are  concerned  ;  natures  like  hers 
cannot  bear  a  forced  growth  well.  Give  her  time,  Mr.  Col- 
lamer.  She  will  do  more  for  herself  than  any  one  can  do 
for  her.  She  belongs  to  the  class  who  can  accomplish  their 
ends  without  the  aid  of  tools  ;  invent  the  tools  that  are 
needful." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  believe  it ;  but  she  suffers  keenly 
many  things  that  she  will  never  complain  of.  It  was  that  I 
thought  of.  Kindnesses  and  gentleness  she  will  feel  in  the 
last  depths  of  her.  Give  her  those,  Miss  Fuller." 

Mercy  smiled,  as  if  almost  on  obtruding  counsel,  till  she 
saw  what  a  serious  interest  the  minister  had  iu  his  request ; 
then  she  gravely  replied, 

"  I  will  see  to  it  that  she  finds  me  always  ready  to  serve 
her  till  she  gets  beyond  my  competence." 


OLD    THINGS  BECOMING  NEW.  317 

Mercy  recalled  this  conversation,  and  remembered  that 
Randy  had  refused  to  talk  about  the  minister's  visit,  when 
on  the  day  after  his  preaching  they  met  in  Hoy's  poor  kitch- 
en, and  old  Samuel  was  eloquent  on  the  subject  of  that 
most  eloquent  exhortation  which  had  made  the  school-room 
walls,  and  the  town  of  Martindale  to  ring  again.  Was  a  tra- 
gedy going  on,  without  earthly  witnesses,  in  the  soul  of  the 
girl  whose  visions  had  so  far  transcended  her  life-long  expe- 
rience ? 

But  some  things  beside  has  Miss  Fuller  to  think  of,  sitting 
in  her  chamber  in  the  house  of  the  widow  Prebble. 

She  has  lying  before  her,  on  the  table,  in  her  hands,  the 
letters  of  youth,  of  ardent  ambitious  youth,  of  proud  and  lov- 
ing youth  ;  youth  that  is  proud  of  its  love,  of  its  ambition, 
and  yet  has  the  grace  to  sue  somewhat  in  the  strain  of  hu- 
mility. Aptomar  is  skilled  in  many  languages.  He  calls 
his  cousin  from  Martindale.  Calls  her  often  by  direct  ap- 
peal ;  oftener  by  dwelling  on  powers  and  places,  on  thoughts 
and  speculations,  on  opportunities,  on  duties,  which  haply 
shall  prove  more  alluring. 

Not  in  rain  does  he  write  these  things  to  her.  Night  by 
night,  in  her  dreams,  she  is  with  him.  But  it  is  always  as  a 
child.  They  are  together  in  the  field  thai  of  old  was  so  often 
flooded  by  the  salt  waves  of  the  sea  ;  they  gather  shells 
there,  and  build  houses  of  the  glittering  white  sand.  They 
know  the  haunts  of  ocean  birds  ;  they  find  the  nests  of 
caves  ;  they  gather  sea-weed  from  the  rocks,  a  guardian  an- 
gel always  keeping  watch  over  them,  over  the  boy  she  calls 
her  son,  and  the  girl  she  calls,  as  tenderly,  her  daughter. 

But  out  of  these  dreams,  morning  after  morning,  Mercy 
comes,  to  live  in  Martindale — to  remember  that  here  dwells 
Peter  Carradine,  a  man  who  has  never  seen  the  ocean,  it 
may  be  ;  who  has  certainly  never  played  upon  its  sands.  A 
man  who  has  grown  up  in  the  midst  of  these  valley  fields — 
who  at  last  has  built  a  fancy  house,  which  his  neighbors  call 
Carradine's  Folly. 

How  will  it  all  be  here  when  she  has  gone  ?  She  holds 
three  letters  in  her  hand — and  holding  them  she  needs  must 
ask  the  question — perfumed  white  pages,  fairly  written, 
dainty  to  look  at,  inspiring  to  read — to  touch  even — what 
other  question  than  this — how  will  it  all  be  here  when  she 
has  gone  ?  A  few  were  disturbed  when  she  came.  Will 


318  PETER  CA.RRADINE. 

any  be  disturbed  that  she  goes  1  Yes  !  There  has  been  a 
transformation  in  a  soul,  even  as  in  a  farm  house,  and  what 
if  that  soul  as  well  as  that  house  were  to  stand  forever  a 
monument?  Her  monument.  But  monuments  are  for  the 
dead.  She  never  could  be  dead  to  Peter  Carradine.  How 
knew  she  this  ? 

Because  she  knew,  dimly  as  yet,  that  he  could  never  be 
dead  to  her.  Knew  it  in  spite  of  world-calls,  and  dear  let- 
ters— knew  it  in  spite  of  fame  and  Girard  street — knew  it 
in  the  face  of  every  brave  promise  of  the  future.  Knew  it 
in  defiance  of  midnight  dreams  of  childhood.  Knew  it  un- 
confessed,  unconfessing 

So,  though  one  might  complain,  Martindale  is  getting  te- 
dious, Mercy  felt  it  not — she  saw  the  maples  crimson,  but 
did  not  shudder  as  if  anticipating  the  blasts  that  should 
crowd  those  splendors  into  insignificant  corners  of  rail 
fences,  and  into  all  the  humiliation  of  death  ;  she  saw  the 
apple  trees  laden  with  the  fast  perfecting  fruit,  and  heard 
how  the  nuts  were  falling  in  the  woods  ;  but  the  fields  that 
are  growing  brown,  and  the  woods  that  will  soon  be  bare,  are 
dear  to  the  eyes  of  Mercy,  with  a  dearness  which  perhaps 
they  shall  not  appropriate  as  theirs  of  right.  No,  something 
not  of  them  has  given  the  power  to  them  that  they  shall 
charm  her  eyes,  and  make  dim  the  glories  of  the  pavement, 
and  the  temptations  through  which  they  lead. 

But  how,  without  the  night  that  followed  this  still  evening 
in  the  private  chamber  the  teacher  occupies  in  the  house  of 
the  widow  Prebble,  Miss  Fuller  would  ever  have  come  to 
full  knowledge  of  these  facts,  it  would  be  difficult,  and  does 
surely  not  behove  me  to  say. 

It  was  after  midnight — she  had  not  yet  folded  her  letters, 
nor  closed  her  book,  but  sat  by  her  table  reading — and  all 
Martindale  slept. 

Slept1?  "What  were  they  doing  in  the  house  there  on  the 
hill  ?  Mr.  Carradine,  it  would  seem,  had  chosen  a  strange 
hour  for  such  an  illumination. 

It  seemed  to  Mercy  when  she  looked  up  from  her  book, 
as  if  by  the  waving  of  some  great  banner  of  fire  athwart  the 
heavens,  that  she  had  actually  seen  some  such  supernatural 
sight — but  a  moment  told  her  that  merely  the  Hill  farm 
house  was  in  flames  ! 

And  beholding  that  disastrous  spectacle  Miss  Fuller  did 


OLD     THINGS    BECOMING    NEW.  319 

what  any  one  beside  the  reader  might  not  have  expected^ 
ran  out  over  rough  roads,  and  rough  fields,  through  the  dark, 
and  the  rain,  to — to  what  ? 

She  did  not  know  till  she  stood  on  the  lawn  breathless 
and  pale,  before  the  astonished  eyes  of  Carradine.  He  was 
apparently  alone  there.  But  at  another  end  of  the  building 
stood  the  man  who  beside  himself  had  been  the  sole  occu- 
pant of  the  house  that  night. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Johnson  ?  Where  is  little  Harry  ?  You 
are  doing  nothing  !" 

"  No,  Miss  Fuller,  the  fire  is  doing  it  for  me." 

"  Saving  nothing  !     Is  there  no  engine  to  be  had  ?" 

Mercy  looked  around  her,  was  there  no  one  to  help  ? 
What  was  Martindale  doing — asleep  at  such  a  moment  ! 

"  No,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  was  going  to  get  one,  but  I 
put  it  off.  We  worked  the  pumps  till  I  saw  nothing  could 
be  done.  There  was  no  use  of  doing  as  much  as  we  did. 
And  I'll  not  have  the  house  mangled  and  spoiled  ;  it  shall 
all  go  together.  I'd  as  soon  tear  a  bird  from  limb  to  limb 
as  raise  a  finger  to  save  a  bit  of  furniture  here  and  there. 
You  saw  it.  They  called  it  my  Folly.  Well,  let  it  go." 

"  But  where  is  Mrs.  Johnson  ?"  repeated  Mercy.  "Where 
is  Harry  ?  It  is  not  possible — " 

"  Didn't  you  know  they  had  moved  to  the  Bronson  farm 
house  ?  They've  been  gone  this  two  days.  I  was  keeping 
bachelor's  hall  up  here.  If  I'd  got  the  house  insured  yet, 
you'd  hear  it  said  I'd  fired  the  Folly,  I'd  be  bound.  But  if 
a  man  shoots  his  cattle,  that's  no  proof  that  he  fires  his 
house,  is  it,  Miss  Fuller  ?" 

"  You  could  bear  it  better,  the  fright  and  the  loss,"  said 
Mercy,  passing  over  the  rude  speech  that  told  of  his  rough 
mood. 

"  Yes,  the  Lord  be  praised  for  that  I'd  Mrs.  Johnson  out 
of  the  house  !  See,  Miss  Fuller,  it  has  got  to  the  little 
room.  Did  she  show  you  in  there  that  day  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  The  sweet  briar  was  just  back  of  the  broad  window  ;  it 
would  have  made  a  pretty  shade.  Did  you  like  the  look  of 
the  little  room  1" 

"  It  was  a  lovely  spot.  See  how  everything  seems  to 
stand  out  in  that  light.  You  might  have  saved  everything 
from  that  sacred  room,  Mr.  Carradine." 


320  PETER    CARRADINE. 

"  But  the  room  itself.  That's  gone  !  Other  folks  can 
get  the  like  in  the  warerooms,  but  they  can't  get  those  par- 
ticular four  walls  to  stand  together  again,  Miss  Fuller.  No, 
nor  I  can't  do  it Why  did  you  call  it  sa- 
cred ?" 

"  Was  it  not  to  you  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  answered — in  the  light  of  his  blaz- 
ing home  he  saw  every  feature  of  her  face,  every  motion  of 
her  body,  as  she  also  of  his ;  on  her  hair  lay  the  drops  of 
fallen  rain,  and  the  rain  was  falling  still,  but  neither  she 
nor  he  gave  heed  to  it ;  but  on  his  head  as  on  hera  it  lay, 
for  he  too  stood  with  bare  head. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "it  was  sacred  ;  for  I'll  say  it  out,  since 
you're  here,  and  this,  may  be,  the  end  of  it.  Those  two 
chairs  were  never  empty.  I  never  sat  down  in  that  room. 
Yet  I  seemed  to  see  myself  at  home  there — there,  more  than 
anywhere.  I  never  saw  myself  alone  in  there,  Miss  Fuller  ; 
it  was  always  together,  you  and  I :  excuse  the  boldness  of 
it ;  it  will  be  easier,  since  it's  being  burnt  out  of  me,  as  you 
see.  Out  of  me,  like  the  burning  out  of  what  was  best,  and 
worth  saving." 

Visions  of  professors  of  dead  and  living  tongues,  of  mar- 
vellous Court-room  triumphs,  of  Girard  street,  and  the 
world,  why  roll  ye  together  as  a  scroll,  as  the  flames  roll 
up  this  Folly,  leaving  the  heavens  clear  for  a  more  beautiful 
Descart  ? 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  not  burnt  out  of  you,  see  me 
there  with  you  always.  Keep  the  memory — keep  it  as  you 
keep  your  mother's  image  ;  in  the  same  place.  I  will  not 
crowd  her  out,  only  take  me  into  the  same  sacred  place." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  incredulous,  and  yet  gently  he  spoke,  "  I 
must  always  walk  among  tombs,  like  the  man  in  the  Scrip- 
ture. But  if  I  may,  God  bless  you  !  I  will  always  see  and 
keep  you  at  least  there,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  flaming  sa- 
cred chamber  with  a  look  of  exultation. 

"  Always,  everywhere,"  she  answered  steadily,  and  still 
those  flames  lit  up  her  face,  and  the  face  was  turned  towards 
him,  and  in  it  he  saw  nothing  but  constancy,  and  confidence, 
and  love. 


OLD     THINGS    BECOMING    NEW.  321 

Is  this  then  a  bonfire  kindled  on  the  Hill  ?  Sleep  on, 
martindale  ;  fall  gently,  September  rain.  There's  a  silent 
chamber  in  the  widow  Prebble's  house  shall  hold  a  happy 
woman's  heart  ere  day  breaks,  and  the  people  know  how 
judgments  wait  upon  Carradine  ! 

-14* 


322  PETER    CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER   XXXYII. 

;  A      NEW      NICK      IN      THE      CIRCLE. 

MR.  JOBSON'S  building  operations  excited  a  degree  of  inte- 
rest in  the  neighborhood  of  which  folks  habituated  to  the 
magic-like  rising  of  hotels  in  city  squares  can  form  not  the 
faintest  conception. 

These  operations  were  attended  also  by  varied  prognosti- 
cations, of  a  favorable  character  and  otherwise  ;  Jobson's 
friends  made  a  parade,  perhaps,  of  these  evidences  of  pros- 
perity ;  deeming  that  prosperity  was  a  token  sufficient  to 
stop  the  mouths  of  moralists  and  critics  ;  sufficient  to  cover 
a  multitude  of  sins.  The  Spread  Eagle's  patrons  plumed 
themselves  on  the  changes  going  on — even  the  bar-room's 
enemies  seemed  to  be  coming  round.  Old  Samuel  Roy,  for 
instance — hadn't  Jobson  shown  him  over  the  premises,  and 
explained  to  him  his  plans  ?  And  didn't  Sammel  seem 
well  pleased  ?  Didn't  he  say  outright  that  he  was  proud 
to  see  such  a  buildin'  going  up  in  Martindell  ? — though  some 
that  heard  him  could  remember  how  he  had  prayed  for  the 
young  men  of  Martindell,  that  they  might  be  kept  out  of 
that  sink  of  iniquity — that  den  of  pollution  ;  though  Senior 
himself  could  recollect  his  warnings  in  years  gone  by  ;  his 
prophecies  of  judgment  to  come  ;  his  enbreaties  for  a  temp'- 
rance  ;  his  accusations  of  spreading  snares  and  traps  for  the 
feet  of  the  unwary  ! 

Poor  old  Roy !  he  had  fallen  on  evil  times  in  his  old  age. 
He  had  lost  his  freedom  of  speech,  and  not  his  light  of  con- 
science. He  had  made  a  friend  in  the  tents  of  the  ungodly 
— his  feet  were  in  slippery  places  !  He  was  sinking  in  the 
mire  !  It  did  not  help  him  when  he  thought  it  was  because 
of  his  pride,  and  for  Randy's  sake  that  he  had  thrown  off 


A    NEW    NICK   IN    TIIE    CIRCLE.  323 

his  burden  of  obligation  to  Mr.  Carradine,  and  assumed 
this  of  debt  to  Senior  Jobson.  Especially  since  the  recon- 
ciliation between  Handy  and  Carradine  had  taken  place,  he 
had  time,  as  well  as  reason,  to  regret  what  he  had  done. 

If  Miranda  had  shared  his  feeling  of  constraint  and  obli- 
gation, and  she  had  shared  it  to  the  uttermost,  and  felt  it 
in  ways  he  could  not  know,  that  time  was  passing. 

On  the  day  of  Mr.  Collamer's  last  preaching  she  had  had 
a  revelation  that  "  changed  the  face  of  all  things."  She 
saw  what  she  had  not  seen — she  knew  what  she  had  not 
known.  We  have  seen  already  that  she  did  not  love  this 
man  ;  and  that  love  in  the  case  was  impossible.  We  have 
seen,  moreover,  that  love  in  connection  with  the  agreement 
to  marriage  was  never  a  question.  It  had  seemed  to  her, 
under  the  circumstances,  expedient — and  supposing  that 
she  could  have  gone  through  life  with  her  heart  sleeping,  as 
it  had  slept,  she  would  have  done  her  duty  in  the  tavern, 
sustained  by  her  religion,  as  thousands  of  women  do  their 
work,  endure,  enjoy — tor  I  suppose  the  word  has  a  shadow 
of  meaning  in  the  connection — and  die.  To  how  many  of 
these,  born  to  such  fortunes — born  to  them,  aye  !  the  light 
that  could  have  made  a  Paradise  of  earth,  never  rises,  never 
shines,  never  sends  even  up  to  the  horizon  a  hint  of  its  ex- 
istence. 

But  full-orbed  it  had  risen  on  Miranda,  and  looking  by  its 
light,  "  seeing  all  things  new,"  beholding  Senior  Jobson  as 
he  stood  revealed  by  its  purity,  she  drew  herself  back,  shud- 
dering, as  if  from  the  edge  of  an  abyss — and  debt  and  obli- 
gation, even  pity,  even  friendship,  even  such  manner  of 
respect  as  she  yet  held  for  him,  could  no  more  control  her 
action  than  her  heart. 

That  she  loved  the  minister  with  an  unwise,  vain  love, 
(if  love  can  be  unwise  and  vain,  as  it  is  if  it  must  be  granted 
that  love  is  loss  except  when  it  attains  to  appropriation,) 
that  their  paths  through  life  were  different — had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  conclusions  to  which  she  now  came.  I  said 
that  by  the  light  of  her  recognizing  love  the  world  was 
changed.  Her  sympathies,  as  they  revealed  themselves, 
her  powers,  her  desires,  rose  from  the  plane  of  life  she  had 
occupied,  to  a  loftier,  that  would  not  permit  a  conscious  de- 
gradation. She  might  have  married  Jobson  without  sin 
once,  but  not  now.  Without  revulsion  of  heart,  without 


324  PETER   CARRADINE. 

antipathy  of  will,  without  shame,  once,  but  not  now.  The 
struggle  through  which  she  passed  in  the  days  following 
the  wedding,  was  one  that  must  end  in  her  victory  over 
any  such  impulse  to  self-abnegation  as  might,  and  doubtless 
would  have  controlled  her,  had  she  not  known  that  the  min- 
ister's affections  were  bestowed  upon  another  woman  so 
unlike  herself  as  to  settle  the  point  of  his  love  for  her  for- 
ever. 

She  understood  that  he  was  her  friend,  her  brother. 
But,  likewise,  she  understood  that  Jobson  never  could  be 
any  more.  She  said  this  to  herself — she  made  the  fact 
clear  to  her  mind,  and  then  waited  for  the  moment  when 
Senior  should  have  all  explained.  Ilemembering  his  oft- 
repeated  words,  that  he  could  trust  his  girl — trust  her  even 
to  camp-meetings — trust  her  even  through  conversion — trust 
her  promises,  her  silences — it  was  a  pain '  to  her  to  think 
that  possibly  he  was  trusting  her  for  love  too,  even  for 
more  than  he  had  ever  asked.  If  he  loved  her,  the  word 
had  never  yet  escaped  him  in  her  hearing  !  But,  he  had 
made  nothing  of  his  money  when  it  could  do  her  service  ; 
he  had  remembered  her  in  ways  that  perfect  selfishness  is 
not  wont  to  remember  others.  She  could  not  entirely  per- 
suade herself  that  he  would  give  her  up  without  more  regret 
than  merely  such  as  was  natural  under  the  circumstances, 
the  regret  a  man  might  feel  in  being  disappointed  of  a  house- 
keeper who  promised  to  be  also  a  sprightly  companion — 
but— it  could  not  be  otherwise — whatever  view  he  might 
take,  whatever  the  result  might  be.  First  of  all,  God  had 
given  her  to  herself,  and  herself  He  would  require  at  her 
hands. 

So  it  was  that  when  Miss  Fuller,  taking  Randy  into  her 
confidence,  proposed  that  she  should  fill  the  place  ere  long 
to  be  made  vacant  in  the  Martindell  schoolhouse,  she  forgot 
all  the  protestations  she  had  made,  dwelt  not  long  on  her 
unfitness  for  the  office,  but  looked,  first  and  last,  on  the 
opening  as  a  providential  straightening  of  paths.  She  could 
endure  what  would  be  said.  Of  course  this  step  would 
give  offence — as  if  the  honor  of  Martindell  had  been  be- 
trayed by  the  mean-spirited  surrender — but  she  would 
patiently  endure  it.  Better  this  than  safety  under  the 
Eagle's  Wings  !  Miss  Fuller  was  her  friend  !  What  strength 
in  that  one  thought !  Even  Miss  Fuller,  the  promised  wife 


A    NEW    NICK    IN    THE    CIRCLE.  325 

of  Carradine.  And  surely  she  had  nowhere  concealed  that 
peace  had  long  ago  been  declared  between  Carradine  and 
herself. 

One  man  only  had  a  right  to  know  the  meaning  of  this 
movement,  and  absorbed  though  he  was  in  his  building,  so 
that  he  seemed  to  have  a  thought  for  nothing  else,  when  he 
heard  from  Ethan  Allen  that  Randy  was  going  to  be  the 
teacher  again,  he  left  the  tavern  and  walked  straight  to 
Samuel  Roy's. 

Ten  minutes  before  'his  arrival,  Miss  Fuller  and  Randy 
had  sat  talking  in  the  room  where-  Randy  now  alone  mused 
over  the  words  that  had  been  said — the  wise  and  kindly 
words — mused  over  the  grace  and  dignity  with  which  they 
were  uttered  by  Mercy.  They  had  talked  of  love  and  of 
duty. 

And  Miranda  was  not  recalling  quietly,  unmoved,  the 
speech  of  Mercy ;  what  she  herself  had  spoken  had  come 
from  her  with  too  much  vehemence,  had  betrayed  too  much 
of  what  a  woman  cannot  reveal  without  misgiving  and  bitter 
regret.  She  was  calling  herself  a  fool  with  undoubting 
earnestness,  when  Mr.  Jobson  presented  himself  before  the 
open  door. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  her  that  nothing  worse  could  have 
happened  than  his  arrival  precisely  at  this  time,  for  at 
once  it  flashed  upon  her  that  he  must  have  heard  of  her 
purpose  in  regard  to  the  school,  and  she  had  promised  her- 
self that,  when  the  occasion,  this  occasion,  should  present 
itself,  he  should  know  all.  Not  for  a  moment  since  she 
formed  her  resolution  had  she  wavered.  There  were  rea- 
sons, good  and  sufficient,  why  he  should  still  be  ignorant  of 
her  purpose — the  only  one  we  need  to  state  is  that  the 
opportunity  for  such  explanation  had  not  until  this  moment 
presented  itself,  and  it  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  make 
such  opportunities  during  the  past  days,  crowded  as  they 
were  with  work  for  him. 

Senior  entered  the  kitchen  at  once,  direct,  as  usual  when 
he  met  with  no  impediments,  and  the  kitchen  door  stood 
open.  He  had  had  not  come  on  a  ceremonious  visit ;  and 
he  made  no  ceremony  in  asking,  as  he  threw  himself  into 
the  nearest  chair,  and  wiped  his  face  with  his  red  silk  hand- 
kerchief, for  he  had  walked  up  the  hill  with  rapid  strides, 
and  was  heated  by  his  haste  as  well  as  by  his  indignation. 


326  PETER   CAKRADINE. 

Indignation  ?  Yes  ;  he  was  thoroughly  indignant  that,  after 
what  had  passed,  Miranda  should  be  thinking  of  the  school 
again — actually  under  engagement  to  teach — he  made  no 
ceremony,  I  say,  asking  : 

"  What's  this,  Randy  ?  Ethan  Allen  tells  me  you're 
schoolma'am  again,  or  going  to  be.  What's  it  mean  ?" 

This  was  the  question  she  had  expected  to  hear,  and  yet 
had  she  failed  to  see  that  he  must  ask  it  in  this  manner, 
angrily — doubting — unwilling  to  believe  !  Her  heart  beat 
fast — in  spite  of  her  face  betrayed  her  agitation,  as  she  an- 
swered : 

"  I  ought  t'  've  let  you  know." 

"I  should  think  so,"  he  interrupted. 

"  I  would  have.  I  tried  to  see  you,  but  you  were  so 
busy.  I  was  in  hopes  you  would  have  come  up  here — and 
if  you  had  I  was  going  to  tell  you." 

"  Are  you  going  to  do  it  ?"  he  interrupted  again.  "  It 
can't  be  !" 

"  Yes,  I  have  thought  better  of  it.  There  isn't  anybody 
else,  and  I'll  do  better  than  I  did  before.  I  can,  I  know." 

"  What's  that  to  do  with  it  ?"  he  asked,  amazed.  "You've 
made  your  engagement  with  me,  haven't  you  ?  What's 
Martindell  to  do  with  that  ?  And  the  Martindell  brats  ? 
Are  you  going  to  give  the  school  up  when  I  get  my  house 
done,  or  may  be  you're  thinking  to  move  the  school'us  down 
there  ?" 

"  No,  I'm  not  thinking  of  that,  Senior.  But  it's  better 
for  me  to  be  a  school-teacher  than  a  wife,  or  to  live  in  the 
tavern.  And  that's  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  Can't 
you  see  how  it's  worn  on  me,  thinking  I  must  disappoint 
you,  for  I  know  it  must  be  so.  What  we've  talked  about 
can't  ever  be." 

"  Then  you're  willing  to  sit  there  and  tell  me  that  !"  said 
he,  rousing  himself  from  the  stupefaction  of  astonishment ; 
breaking  the  silence  which  for  full  five  minutes  after  she 
made  this  announcement,  remained  unbroken. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I'm  not  willing  !  It's  the  hardest 
thing  I  ever  did  !"  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  for  a 
moment,  she  had  lost  her  self-control ;  she  would  not  have 
him  see,  yet  she  would  have  him  know,  that  she  could  not 
Bay  this  to  him  unmoved. 


A     NEW     NICK     IN     THE     CIRCLE.  327 

"  Then  what  the  devil's  to  pay  ?"  he  exclaimed,  spring- 
ing from  his  chair,  and  approaching  her. 

She  too  arose,  but  she  retreated  before  him.  When  he 
saw  that,  he  stood  still  and  waited.  For  a  moment  he  had 
thought  that  some  person  had  come  between  them  ;  her  fa- 
ther, perhaps.  In  that  case  he  knew  what  to  do  ;  but  if  it 
was  herself! 

"  It's  because  I  know  I'm  not  the  wife  for  you,"  said 
she,  "  and  because  the  tavern's  no  place  for  me,  but  would 
be  the  worst  place  in  the  world.  As  it  has  been  for  Junior's 
poor  wife." 

"  It's  your  damned  religion's  done  it.  Made  a  canting 
hypocrite  of  you,  like  all  the  rest !  Senior  Jobson  is  a  fool. 
He  thought  Randy  was  safe  !  He  believed  in  Randy  !" 

"  Oh,  Senior,  won't  you  believe  in  her  yet  ?  I  never  de- 
ceived you.  I  did  mean  it.  I  did  promise  truly — till  it 
seemed  as  my  eyes  were  opened,  like  Paul's,  and  I  couldn't 
but  hear  the  voice  that  said,  keeping  my  vows  to  you  was 
breaking  them  to  God  !  Senior,  oh  do  believe  me — do  trust 
Randy  yet  !" 

She  would  have  approached  him  while  she  spoke,  but 
now  he  retreated,  and  seeing  that  he  did  so,  she  in  turn, 
stood  still. 

"  Trust  you  !"  he  said.  "  I've  done  that,  I'll  own.  I've 
done  that  once  in  my  life,  believed  in  a  woman."  He  stop- 
ped short  and  laughed,  but  there  was  no  merriment  in  that. 
She  saw  to  what  distrust  his  trust  had  given  way  ;  to  what 
bitterness  his  kindly  feeling  toward  her  had  succumbed. 
She  had  never  imagined  that  his  features  could  be  wrought 
into  such  an  expression  as  they  now  had  ;  it  frightened  her 
to  look  upon  his  face,  which  had  lost  every  trace  of  kind- 
ness, and  bore  witness  alone  to  his  evil  passions.  Seldom 
indeed  had  they  obtained  such  dominion  over  him. 

"  Trust  her  !  what  for  ?  Because  she  has  lied  to  me  1 
Because  she  had  rather  creep  and  cringe  to  them  that'll  set 
their  foot  on  her,  rather  than  stand  on  her  own  feet  by  the 
side  of  a  man  who's  too  proud  to  be  a  knave  and  a  hypo- 
crite. You've  made  your  mind  up.  I  don't  ask  you  to  un- 
make it.  But,  by  thunder  !  I  hate  to  think  it's  Randy's  do- 
ings." 

"  You  won't  hear  me.     You  won't,  you  can't — " 

"  You're  right !"  said  he,  breaking  in  upon  what  she  pur- 


328  PETER     CARRADINE. 

posed  to  say.     "  I'm  what  I  was.     I'm  what  you  promised 
to.     But  you — you  ain't  the  girl  I  thought  for  :  no,  no." 

"  It's  true,  that  is  !"  she  said  quickly.  "  I'm  not  the 
girl  you  thought,  not  the  girl  you  wanted.  And  that's  the 
reason.  I  saw  it,  and  I  wanted  you  to  see  it,  and  now  you 
do,  thank  God  !  you  won't  be  wanting  me  any  more." 

Instead  of  replying  to  this,  Senior  turned  away  from 
Randy,  and  walked. out  of  the  house. 

He  strode  up  the  lane,  with  his  head  erect,  but  when  he 
passed  through  the  gate,  before  he  took  to  the  high  road, 
he  paused  a  moment  and  looked  around  him,  as  if  he  had 
suspected  that,  somewhere,  some  one  stood  observing  him ; 
but,  under  heaven,  there  was  no  one. 

He  whistled  a  strain  or  two.  as  he  went  back  to  the  tav- 
ern ;  arrived  there,  he  busied  himself  among  the  workmen  : 
nothing  had  taken  place  apparently  ;  he  gossipped  at  night- 
fall in  his  bar-room  with  the  usual  spirit ;  and  yet,  did  he 
know  that  a  deeper  shadow  than  that  of  night  had  fallen 
around  him  ? 

If  only  he  had  not  attributed  it  all  to  the  wrong  cause — 
to  religion,  to  a  deceiving  spirit !  That  thought  tormented 
Randy.  It  prevented  all  self-gratulation  she  might  other- 
wise have  felt.  What  if,  in  saving  her  mere  self,  she  had 
imperilled  him  anew  !  And,  after  all,  was  there  really 
any  danger  that  she  would  ever,  through  the  pressure  of 
hard  work  and  the  care  of  many  children,  and  the  incite- 
ment and  temptation  of  example,  sink  into  the  degraded 
state  of  Junior's  wife  ? 

Just  now,  so  little  seemed  the  danger  of  such  a  consum- 
mation that,  instead  of  shuddering  in  view  of  it,  she  accused 
herself  of  inventing  the  excuse,  and  writhed  to  think  that 
Senior  was  justified  in  calling  her  a  hypocrite. 

He  had  not  asked  for  love — she  had  not  promised  any. 
It  was  an  honorable  contract  merely,  that  she  had  incon- 
sistently withdrawn  from. 

Ah,  but — marry  him  ! 


SALLY'S  LIBERATION.  329 


CHAPTER    XXXYIII. 


SALLYS      LIBERATION. 

ELDER  GREEN  had  returned  to  Martindale  after  a  week's 
absence.  The  journey  he  undertook  was  not  altogether  a 
mystery  in  his  own  house.  Huldah,  his  wife,  knew  that 
Oliver  Savage  had  got  into  trouble,  and  that  the  Elder  had 
determined  to  help  him  out  of  it ;  Esther,  his  mother,  un- 
derstood as  much  as  this  ;  and  apparently  no  one  knew  any 
more. 

But  Mrs.  Green  the  younger  had  her  suspicions.  Sally's 
variable  mood,  the  whole  summer  long,  had  not  been  unno- 
ticed by  her  ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  something  was  going 
wrong  in  that  excited  and  altogether  unusual  state  of  mind 
of  which  the  proofs  were  constant. 

After  the  Elder's  departure,  a  dead  calm  seemed  to  hold 
the  life  of  the  girl.  The  relief  she  felt  in  the  absence  of 
Oliver,  and  in  the  fact  that  now  her  father  knew  all,  and  that 
she  was  free  again,  free  from  the  apprehensions  that  had 
constantly  tormented  her,  free  from  the  weight  of  a  secret 
of  such  a  nature,  from  the  dread  of  its  untimely  revela- 
tion ;  saved  from  the  shame  that  had  threatened  her  from 
unlucky  discovery  of  Oliver's  guilt — from  his  conviction  to 
a  prison ;  gratitude  to  her  father  for  the  swift  method  he 
had  taken  for  her  deliverance,  this  relief  did  not  manifest 
itself  in  any  form  of  rejoicing  at  first.  She  was  petulant 
and  gloomy,  and  her  mother's  perplexed  efforts  to  conciliate 
and  console  her  were  at  last  suspended,  with  something  like 
an  indignant  indifference. 

Then  Sally  fell  into  a  morbid  state  of  being,  and  fostered 
her  selfishness  and  her  pride  until  she  was  really  very  near 


330  PETER  CARRADINE. 

to  being  what,  on  another  score,  she  verily  believed  herself 
to  be,  the  most  miserable  of  mortals. 

When  her  father  came  home  she  was  shocked  at  the  first 
glance  she  obtained  of  him,  when  he  stepped  from  the  stage 
that  brought  him  to  Martindale — he  looked  so  jaded  and  so 
feeble  ;  full  ten  years  older  than  when  he  went  away.  But 
he  would  not  acknowledge  that  he  had  suffered  any  loss  of 
any  kind  ;  and  he  made  it  very  evident  to  inquiring  minds 
that  his  state  was  by  no  means  one  that  justified  anxiety  ; 
even  to  his  wife  or  to  his  mother  he  would  not  admit  it,  and 
his  daughter  was  either  afraid,  or  else  too  proud,  to  acknow- 
ledge that  she  saw  any  change  in  him. 

She  asked  him  no  question  in  regard  to  Oliver,   and   he 
vouchsafed  no  information 
So  they  lived. 

And  the  suffering  of  sorrow  endured  by  the  parent  and 
the  child,  were  not  to  be  compared.  Her  folly  and  decep- 
tion had  cut  him  to  the  heart ;  but  he  said  to  himself,  how 
often  he  said  it,  "  It  was  an  error  of  the  heart  rather  than  of 
the  head,  poor  Sally  !"  Yet,  after  all  excuse  was  made  for 
her,  (and  through  his  wakeful  nights  and  thoughtful  days, 
his  heart  was  forming  many  an  excuse  for  Sally,)  there  re- 
mained the  sharp  pain  of  this  unchanging  fact,  she  had  wil- 
fully deceived  him ;  when  he  trusted  her,  and  she  saw 
the  nature  of  the  trust,  even  then  she  had  made  use  of 
opportunity,  and  had  chosen  a  base  fellow  whom  to 
love  ! 

With  what  pain  he  looked  back  over  the  past,  and  saw 
the  years  through  which  she  had  been  growing  up  in  beauty 
in  his  sight ;  how  she  had  been  fostered,  cared  for  !  With 
what  love  and  indulgence  !  Never  thwarted — trusted  as 
though  she  had  been  the  pure  angel  she  looked  in  his  eyes  ! 
Perhaps  there  had  been  a  mistake  in  all  this  !  Perhaps  he 
had  too  often  spared  the  rod !  It  might  be,  indeed,  that 
they  had  spoiled  the  child  ! 

Then  he  remembered,  "  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that 
shall  he  also  reap,"  and  his  manner  changed  toward  Sally. 
As  one  who  had  been  wronged,  and  whom  it  was  perhaps 
too  late  to  right,  but  to  whom  at  least  pitying  love  and  ten 
der  care  were  more  than  ever  due  !  And  he  remembered 
that  Christ  forgave  even  the  ungrateful,  even  the  unthank- 
ful, even  the  unrepenting. 


SALLY'S  LIBERATION.  331 

But  slie  took  it  as  her  right,  and  never  was  softened  to 
say,  "  I  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  child." 

She  had  been  deceived.  Her  life  had  been  ruined.  Oh, 
is  there  any  end  to  the  heart's  selfish  sophistry  ? 

Thus  gradually  her  manners  changed  toward  all  around 
her.  Her  vanity  became  her  most  conspicuous  power.  It 
was  in  reality  the  spirit  of  defiance  that  took  possession  of 
her — that  kept  all  who  knew  her  at  a  distance  ;  that  wholly 
changed  the  aspect  of  her  life.  Yet  she  could  not  live  alone. 
She  had  no  other  resource  than  society.  The  Carradine  de- 
monstrations gave  her  an  idea.  Her  activity  in  certain  di- 
rections became  fearful  to  beholders  ;  and  though  her  father 
demurred  and  expostulated,  he  did  rarely  in  the  end  oppose 
any  of  Sally's  wishes.  So  the  way  of  life  was  gradually  un- 
dergoing changes  in  the  old  brown  farm  house,  as  already 
in  the  old  red  on  the  hill.  Paint  and  whitewash,  paper- 
hangers,  etc.,  were  here  in  demand.  And  the  new  furni- 
ture, that  elsewhere  than  in  the  shut-up  drawing-room,  ob- 
truded on  the  eyes  of  Esther  Green,  set  her  to  praying- 
away,  if  haply  she  might,  the  evil  spirit  of  worldliness 
which  had  crept  into  the  house,  with  a  setting  up  of  notions 
for  which  Peter  Carradine  was  responsible  ! 

I  shrink  from  the  task  of  portraying  the  life  on  which 
Sally  Green  had  entered — the  unspeakable  littleness  of  the 
vanity  and  envy,  which,  through  the  daylight,  devised  for 
themselves  ways,  means,  and  execution.  I  know  that  pre- 
cisely such  qualities,  when  urged  into  action  in  larger 
spheres,  get  for  themselves  some  admiration,  and  command 
some  respect.  But  I  can  invite  none  for  Sally.  She  was 
idle,  and  unhappy  ;  she  had  been  trained  up  to  worthless- 
ness,  and  was  fulfilling  her  mission  with  a  consistency  of 
purpose  that  almost  commands  admiration. 

But,  as  time  passed  on,  must  she  not  begin  to  see  the 
past  under  some  illusion  ?  And  must  she  necessarily  ex- 
aggerate the  wickedness  and  worthlessness  of  Oliver  ?  Or 
rather,  being  such  a  woman,  why  not  see  his  faults  with 
greater  lenience,  and  find  forgiveness  easier  than  condem- 
nation ?  Who  could  tell  where,  or  how,  he  was  expiating 
the  faults  of  his  youth  ?  She  had  not  asked  her  father 
what  had  become  of  him  ;  her  father  had  vouchsafed  no  in- 
formation. They  had  not  exchanged  a  word  on  the  subject. 


332  PETER   CARRADINE. 

This  silence  was  all  the  worse  for  her  ;  it   left   imagination 
larger  sweeps  and  wilder  liberty. 

One  day  she  walked  deliberately  up  to  the  house  of  wi- 
dow Savage,  with  the  purpose  to  discover  whether  anything 
had  yet  been  heard  of  Oliver.  She  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
woman  since  the  day  after  her  son's  farewell  note  was  sent 
to  her,  at  which  time  Sally  had  left  to  her  mother  the  work 
of  consolation  and  encouragement,  and  the  transfer  of  the 
Elder's  assurance  that  it  was  best  for  him  to  go  ;  indeed  the 
only  good  thing  that  remained  for  him. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Sally,  going  up  the  road  and  looking 
back  now  and  then,  under  apprehension  that  her  errand 
would  be  guessed  and  her  progress  watched,  (and  saying 
to  herself  with  every  such  suggestion,  I  am  of  age,  i  have 
my  rights  !)  "  perhaps  I  can  console  the  old  woman,  or  may 
be  they've  heard  some  news."  . 

Arrived  at  the  house,  she  found  the  family  in  a  commo- 
tion— widow  Savage  crying  over  a  picture  in  a  daguerreo- 
type frame  ;  the  two  girls  sharing  her  excitement,  which  in 
their  case  took  a  more  hopeful  and  rejoicing  form. 

Oliver  had  sent  his  picture  to  his  mother  on  the  day  the 
vessel  sailed  for  Australia  ;  there  it  was  !  He  had  like- 
wise written  her  a  letter — brief,  not  quite  intelligible,  but 
apparently  in  good  spirits,  and  under  the  constraint  of  ex- 
cellent expectations  !  He  was  going  to  Australia,  he  said, 
to  make  a  fortune  for  all  of  them.  "\Vhen  they  saw  him  in 
Martindale  again,  he  should  be  able  to  live  without  work, 
and  all  they  would  have  to  do  in  those  days  would  be  to  let 
him  know  their  wishes  !  How  long  he  should  be  away,  he 
could  not  tell,  but  not  many  years  he  thought.  Elder  Green 
had  been  very  kind  to  him.  He  had  introduced  him  to  the 
captain,  and  there  was  a  nice  lot  of  young  fellows  going 
out  to  seek  their  fortune  in  the  same  vessel.  Elder  Green 
had  paid  his  passage,  and  he  was  well  provided  for  when  he 
should  land.  They  went  away  in  such  haste,  before  he  had 
time  to  say  good-bye  to  any  one — but  if  they  had  not  gone 
that  very  hour  they  would  have  missed  the  vessel ;  he  could 
not  have  secured  his  passage  a  day  later.  But  he  had  time 
afterwards  to  get  this  picture  taken,  which  he  hoped  all  his 
dear  friends  would  think  like  him,  and  that  when  they  look- 
ed at  it,  they  would  forgive  all  his  youthful  follies.  He 
went  away  from  shore  with  no  hard  thoughts  of  any  one.  He 


SALLY'S  LIBERATION.  333 

forgave  everybody,  as  he  hoped  to  be  forgiven,  and  he  pray- 
ed that  he  might  prove  to  be  a  son  that  widow  Savage  would 
be  proud  of  yet ;  and  he  asked  her  to  try  and  not  remember 
against  him  all  the  little  things  that  had  come  between  them 
— and,  through  all  the  letter,  he  called  her  his  own  dear 
mother,  whose  face  would  be  before  him  wherever  he  might 
go,  all  the  years  while  they  were  parted  from  each  other, 
and  he  should  need  no  picture  to  remind  him  of  her  and 
the  girls  ! 

And  this  was  what  had  set  the  mother  to  crying  over  the 
pretty  picture,  and  the  girls  to  hoping,  after  the  fashion  of 
loving  age  and  loving  youth. 

When  Sally  Green,  so  fair  and  fine,  stepped  across  the 
threshold  and  joined  the  family  party,  the  mother's  sobbing 
was  a  little  hushed,  and  she  told,  with  the  girls'  help,  what 
had  happened,  and  showed  the  miniature. 

"  Look  at  it !  look  at  it  !"  and  they  put  it  into  her  hands 
with  a  unanimous  impulse. 

So  she  took  the  picture,  eagerly.  Looked  at  it,  trem- 
bling. 

"  Oliver  Savage  !" 

The  widow  looked  at  her,  wiping  her  eyes.  She  could 
see  as  well  as  another — better  than  those  two  girls  of  hers, 
who  asked  : 

"  Isn't  it  like  him,  though  ?" 

And  she  said  to  herself,  "  She  loves  my  son.  And  that's 
the  reason  that  Elder  Green  has  sent  him  off!  And  that's 
what  the  poor  lad  meant  when  he  used  to  say  such  odd 
things  nobody  could  make  out." 

"  It  is  as  good  as  seeing  him,"  said  Sally,  after  long  and 
silent  gazing  at  the  picture.  "  There  isn't  a  man  left  in 
Martindale  with  such  a  face  as  Oliver's.  How  hand- 
some !" 

"  And  here's  a  lock  of  his  hair,  do  you  see  ?  Girls,  here 
it  is — just  see  that  curl,  Miss  Sally." 

That  too  she  took  in  her  hands — a  •  long,  black,  waving 
lock,  and  she  said, 

"  It  looks  as  if  he  had  cut  it  from  his  forehead." 

"  Give  me  the  picture  here — he  might  have  cut  off  a  doz- 
en locks  like  that,  and  never  a'  been  missed  " 

"  I  wish  he  had  cut  two  !"  said  Sally  Green. 

"  Sit  down,"  urged  the  old  woman.      "  Here,  we've  never 


334  PETER   CAKRADINE.  ' 

offered  you  a  seat !"  and  they  all   started,    instantaneously 
convicted  of  that  rank  offence. 

"  Thinking  of  him,  no  wonder,"  said  Sally,  taking  the 
first  .chair  that  offered  ;  and  she  gave  the  lock  of  hair  back 
to  Oliver's  mother. 

"  It's  your  father  has  been  's  kind  to  help  him,  so  you 
ought'o  have  it,"  said  the  widow  Savage  ;  thereupon  she,  to 
her  girls'  amazement,  parted  the  lock,  and  one-half  she  gave 
to  Sally.  "  He's  to  write  when  he  gets  settled — write  ano- 
ther letter,  and  then  the  girls  must  write  to  him,  he  says. 
They'll  tell  him,  then,  we  gave  you  half  of  the  lock  of  hair, 
and  that  will  please  the  poor  boy,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  replied  Sally,  hastily,  "  better  not  !  Where  would 
be  the  use,  you  know  ?"  and  she  blushed  under  the  eyes 
that  turned  upon  her,  and  her  heart  was  pained  to  hear  the 
mother  say,  in  an  humble,  apologizing  voice, 

"  It  was  only  to  give  him  a  little  pleasure,  poor  boy, 
away  out  there,  so  fur." 

"  But  before  you  write — that  may  be  long  yet,  you  know 
— perhaps  I'll  have  some  message  to  send."  She  said  this 
to  soothe  the  mother — she  said  it  to  please  herself! 

For  when  she  went  off  with  those  treasured  threads  of 
the  parted  lock  of  hair,  she  put  them  in  her  bosom,  and  re- 
flected : 

"  Whose  is  it,  if  not  mine  ?  Who  has  a  better  right  ? 
And  he  is  mine  !  and  I  wish  that  I  were  with  him  !  Poor 
Oliver!  What  right  has  any  one  to  come  between  man 
and  wife  ?  as  father  said.  What  right  has  any  one  to  take 
a  promise  given  out  of  fear  ?  It  wouldn't  stand  in  law  !  I 
wish  father  could  just  see  that  letter.  He  would  see  how 
good  at  heart  the  poor  boy  is.  Poor  lock  of  hair  !''  and  she 
took  it  out  and  kissed  it.  "  But  if  I  told  him  of  the  letter, 
then,  he  would  suspect  that  I  was  thinking  of  him — and  I 
know  what  he  thinks  of  Oliver  ;  if  he  ever  gets  an  opinion 
of  a  man  he  doesn't  change  it,  right  or  wrong.  Poor  Oli- 
ver !  I  wasn't  kind  to  him,  to  forgive  him — I  know  he 
means  me.  He  sends  his  forgiveness  to  me  !  When  they 
write  the  letter,  I  can  send  a  word — I  can  say — they  will 
never  understand  it — tell  him  I  am  sure  that  if  any  body 
prospers  in  Australia  he  will ;  for  there's  nothing  standing 
between  him  and  his  fortune  but  himself!  But  if  he  thinks 
it  is  all  over  between  us — or  is  angry — but  then  he  talked 


SALLY'S  LIBERATION.  335 

of  forgiveness,  and  of  coming  back,  and  I  am  sure  that  he 
could  never  love  any  body  after  me,  for  I  know  how  I  feel 
to  him  !  But  father  need  never  be  troubled  by  it.  He' will 
not  be  alive  when  Oliver  comes  back.  What  am  I  saying  ? 
But,  in  the  course  of  nature,  it  will  be  a  long  while  yet  be- 
fore Oliver  will  be  able  to  come.  But  if  I  had  my  own  for- 
tune in  my  own  hands — "  and  so  she  kissed  the  lock  of  hair 
again,  and  went  home,  and  read  for  her  father  the  newspa- 
per he  was  waiting  to  have  read. 

Poor  Elder  Green  !  Any  one  that  looked  at  him,  anyone 
except  his  own  and  only  daughter,  would  have  had  no  ques- 
tion in  the  thought  as  to  whether  he  was  passing,  with  rapid 
steps  that  none  could  hinder,  in  the  path  that  stretches  be- 
yond human  sight. 

And  if,  from  this  time  henceforth,  that  daughter  waits 
upon  his  wishes  with  a  gentler  care  than  ever  before  ;  and  is 
patient  with  the  childish  old  woman,  whose  religious  sever- 
ity has  passed,  as  she  has  lost  her  stern  hold  on  life,  into 
an  exacting  mood,  that  seems  far  enough  from  religious  ;  if 
he  sees  in  all  the  evidences  which  gladden  his  heart  tokens 
of  his  daughter's  repentance,  and  of  her  recognition  of  his 
justice,  and  that  all  is  peace  between  them,  and  if  he  blesses 
God  daily  in  secret  for  this  merciful  dispensation  of  his  pro- 
vidence, no  erring  parent  in  the  world  will  be  quick  to  say 
that,  since  he  was  trusting  in  a  delusion,  and  rejoicing  in  it, 
it  should  have  been  removed  ! — that  he  should  have  died  in 
the  full  consciousness  that  the  results  of  his  training  of  that 
child  were  not  to  be  set  aside  for  any  anguish  of  his 
heart  ! 

He  saw  the  evidences  of  her  true  repentance.  Saw  them 
in  her  serious  face — in  the  industrious  habits  she  seemed 
trying  to  form — in  the  spirit  of  helpfulness  she  manifested 
towards  the  different  members  of  the  family. 

Yes,  there  was  no  mistake,  he  saw  these  things  ;  they  had 
a  meaning.  They  meant  this  :  The  relentings  of  a  selfish 
soul  that  had  lived  for  its  own  pleasure  to  the  pain  of  oth- 
ers. The  doubting  of  a  perversity  that  rarely  had  doubted 
its  own  wisdom — never  its  right — to  the  end  that  seemed 
good  in  its  sight.  The  superstition  of  one  who  has  been 
trained  up  to  external  decencies,  and  in  all  religious  obser- 
vances, and  has  never  mistaken  the  form  for  the  spirit  of 
godliness,  and  the  ways  of  life  for  life  itself. 


336  PETER     CARRADINE. 

She  could  take  some  blame  to  herself.  She  had  not  read 
her  Bible  as  faithfully  as  she  should  have  done.  She  had 
prayed  less  than  was  right.  Henceforth  she  would  live  a  Chris- 
tian. And  so,  having  performed  these  duties  to  her  father 
and  to  God — if  Oliver  should  ever  come  back  to  Martindale, 
she  would  take  it  as  a  sign  that  those  whom  God  had  joined 
together,  (had  not  a  minister  performed  the  ceremony  ?) 
man  should  not  part.  She  would  go  with  him. 

And,  meantime,  if  she  could  by  any  word  send  comfort 
to  him  in  his  exile,  on  what  ground  could  she  withhold  it  ? 
Perhaps  she  had  already  greatly  failed  in  her  duty  to  Oli- 
ver. Perhaps  she  might  have  hindered  him  from  the  folly 
whose  discovery  had  broken  up  their  relations  !  She  knew 
that,  if  she  had  stood  by  him  to  the  end,  her  father  would 
have  forgiven  both  !  But  it  was  all  so  dreadful,  and  in  her 
shame  and  frenzy  she  had  really  felt  as  if  her  love  had  turn- 
ed to  hate — but  now  ! 

Yes,  it  was  she  who  was  to  blame,  of  all  concerned.  Poor 
Oliver  was  only  the  victim  !  And  why  pray  to  God  for  for- 
giveness, while  there  was  one  on  earth  whose  forgiveness 
was  so  necessary  to  her  peace  ? 

You  see  how  it  was.  Apparently  a  hopeless  case.  Who 
would  have  believed  it !  There  were  people  who  admired 
the  Elder's  daughter.  She  was  sprightly,  pretty ;  she 
dressed  herself  with  exceeding  good  taste  ;  she  sat  a  horse 
well ;  she  could  drive  a  span  ;  she  was  the  pride  of  Esther 
Green ;  she  had  been  the  Elder's  joy  ;  in  spite  of  herself, 
the  Elder's  wife  stood  sometimes  in  awe  of  her ;  she  had 
had  so  many  advantages,  and  she  exhibited  the  results  of  the 
same  sometimes  with  such  a  flourish. 

Who  would  have  believed  it !  And  I  confess  I  am  al- 
most ashamed  to  write  of  things  so  exceptional  among  do- 
mestic experiences.  For  probably  there  never  was  another 
young  damsel  in  the  world  like  Sally  Green  !  Young  wo- 
men, like  young  men,  sometimes  make  conspicuous  wrecks 
of  themselves  ;  but  probably  never  before,  nor  since  the 
days  of  Elder  Green,  did  a  secret  grief  consume  the  life  of 
a  father's  heart ;  did  a  character  far  from  imbecile  do  the 
wanton  work  of  an  irresponsible  agent. 

Spoiled  child,  they  called  poor  Sally.  Oh,  heart  of  Hea- 
ven !  oh,  wounded,  Father  heart  ! 

She  would  test  the  will  of  Heaven  !  Would  Heaven  re- 
turn her  Oliver ! 


THE     WEDDING-DAY,     AND     PLACE.  337 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

THE       WEDDING-DAY,       AND       PLACE. 

WHILE  Mr.  Carradine  was  occupied  with  all  his  Hill-farm 
improvements,  actual  and  projected,  planning  and  procuring 
plans  for  the  new  house  that  should  stand  ou  the  eminence 
for  so  much  more  than  the  old,  consulting  in  Brighton  city, 
and  out  of  it,  with  the  wise  in  such  matters,  conciliating 
Mrs.  Johnson  in  curious  ways  that  no  other  man  could  pos- 
sibly have  devised,  occupying  the  place  in  the  Bronson  cot- 
tage which  she  had  instantly  made  ready  for  him  the  day 
after  that  fire  which  was  spoken  of  by  the  neighborhood  as 
a  disaster,  but  by  Carradine's  self  after  another  manner — 
while  he  did  so,  and  lived  thus,  Miss  Fuller  was  quietly 
conducting  her  school,  preparing,  by  every  method,  the  way 
for  Miranda,  and  preparing  likewise,  during  leisure  hours, 
for  the  change  to  which  Time  was  rapidly  conducting  her- 
self. 

Writing  letters  also  to  Cousin  Aptomar  ;  getting  finally 
one  from  him  which  made  her  smile  through  her  tears  ; 
she  might  have  laid  that  letter  in  his  mother's  hands.  After 
this  letter  came,  Mercy  went  her  ways  with  a  more  assured 
tranquility,  and  every  day  laid  at  her  feet  some  new  assur- 
ance that,  if  she  chose  to  receive  it  so,  was  ample  justifica- 
tion of  the  choice  she  had  made.  Justification  did  she  need! 
Often  she  went  down  to  Brighton  to  spend  the  Sunday  with 
her  friends  ;  and  Commissioner  Brown  on  each  successive 
visit  greeted  her  with  a  more  beaming  face,  until  his 
triumph,  as  a  prophet,  became  too  great  to  bear  in  secret 
with  his  daughter. 

Busy  were  those  Saturday  afternoons  in  Brighton  which 
the  busy  week  had  doled  to  her.  And  yet  not  mighty  were 

15 


338  PETER   CARRADINE. 

the  works  to  which  Mercy  on  such  occasions  gave  herself. 
No  manner  of  temptation  was  great  enough  to  suggest  to 
Mercy  that  any  debts  she  might  contract  were  innocent, 
since  she  would  so  soon  be  married,  and  Carradine  was 
rich  !  Perhaps  such  a  resource  had  never  been  suggested 
to  her  by  the  devil  of  a  corrupt  society.  Poor  she  was — 
and  she  came  to  her  bridegroom  arrayed  in  such  garb  as 
she  had  earned  by  her  own  labor. 

She  had  no  misgivings  in  preparing  to  take  the  step 
which  should  decide  her  future.  After  the  letter  came  in 
which  Aptomar  ceased  from  reproach,  and  pleading,  and  ut- 
tered only  kindly  thoughts,  and  generous  wishes,  taking 
upon  him  to  bless  her  as  his  mother  would  have  done,  to 
every  future  deed  and  endeavor,  she  was  happier  than  per- 
haps he  ever  hoped  to  make  her.  Happy  everywhere  ;  in 
her  school  and  in  solitude  ;  planning  the  future  life  ;  talking 
of  him  with  Mrs.  Johnson  ;  and  about  all  that  he  personified 
to  Miranda.  Yes  ;  her  day  had  come  ;  and  with  all  rever- 
ence we  may  say  of  it,  as  of  all  such  days,  it  was  a  day  of 
the  Lord.  When  He  might  smile  from  His  heavens,  on  a 
work  that  was  very  good  ;  when  He  might  cease  to  repent 
Him  that  He  had  made  man. 

In  October,  at  the  end  of  the  term,  Mercy  went  down  to 
Brighton  to  remain  there  till  the  time  appointed  for  the 
wedding. 

The  ceremony,  as  it  had  long  been  arranged,  was  to  be 
performed  at  the  house  of  Commissioner  Brown.  But  one 
evening,  Mr.  Carradine,  speaking  with  her  on  this  business 
of  the  wedding,  told  Mercy  of  the  disappointment  of  his 
neighbors,  that  they  were  none  of  them  to  witness  the  cere- 
mony, since  it  was  to  be  performed  in  Brighton,  and  in  pri- 
vate there. 

And  yet,  what  could  he  do  about  it  ?  He  had  told  them 
that,  if  he  could  manage  it,  nothing  would  please  him  bet- 
ter than  to  have  all  Martindell  for  a  witness  to  his  wedding  ; 
there  wasn't  a  man,  woman  or  child,  but  might  consider 
himself  and  herself  invited.  Still,  what  could  he  do  ?  The 
arrangements  that  were  made  could  not  be  unmade. 

It  was  evident  that  though  he  repeated  all  this  perplexity 
to  Mercy,  he  did  not  anticipate  from  her  any  alleviating 
suggestion.  Yet !  oh,  wonderful  woman !  here  she  was, 


THE     WEDDING-DAY,     AND     PLACE.  339 

prompt  to  enter  into  the  "  difficulty  " — to  remove  the  per- 
plexity ;  to  satisfy  the  town  of  Martindell. 

"  It  might  be  done  at  the  schoolhouse,"  said  she. 

He  was  a  little  dull,  it  seemed. 

"  How's  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  We  might  drive  over  to  Martindale  in  the  morning. 
And  Mr.  Brown  could  take  the  minister  in  his  carriage, 
with  Mrs.  Brown  and  the  girls  ;  then  all  the  neighbors  could 
come  at  the  hour  appointed  ;  and  the  children  ;  all  the  school 
children,  you  know." 

Carradine  seemed  for  the  moment  lost  in  admiration  of 
the  skill  and  the  kindness  that  had  devised  so  readily. 
Mercy  Fuller  must  have  been  made  for  him,  indeed,  to  de- 
liver him  thus  out  of  all  perplexities.  He  never  yet  fairly 
stated  to  her  any  trouble  whatsoever,  but  she  could  suggest  a 
remedy. 

"  But  are  you  sure  you  would  like  it  ?"  he  asked,  for  he 
remembered  how  she  had  said  that  a  private  wedding  would 
be  according  to  her  notion  of  what  should  be.  How  well 
they  had  agreed  about  that.  But  now — how  well  they 
were  agreeing  about  a  very  different  arrangement ! 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Mercy  answered. 

"  But,"  he  was  incredulous,  the  more  he  thought  of  it, 
"  will  you  really  like  to  see  the  old  schoolhouse  full  on  such 
an  occasion  ?  For  they  will  all  come." 

"  Why  not  ?  if  they  are  all  our  friends,  and  come  to  wish 
us  well.  We  shall  feel  almost  as  if  we  had  family  relations 
round  us  to  wish  us  happiness,  and  prophesy  smooth  things 
for  us." 

He  blessed  her  in  his  heart  when  he  replied, 

"  Then  it  shall  be  in  the  schoolhouse.  And  I  will  set 
Mrs.  Johnson  to  cooking  a  wedding  feast,  and  they  shall 
have  tables  in  the  grove.  We'll  show  them  what  a  wedding 
should  be,  Mercy,  and  while  they  feast  we  will  go  down  to 
Brighton  and  take  the  cars  at  the  same  hour  we  had  set. 
Shall  it  be  so,  Mercy  V 

"  Yes." 

"  It'll  do  Martindell  good,"  said  he.  And  then,  after  a 
pause,  and  some  hesitating  effort,  "  I'm  doubting  about  the 
sea.  If  you  would  like  it  better,  we  might  leave  that  now. 
You  talked  about  your  cousin  once,  and  I  remember  how 
he  and  you  lived  on  the  beach  somewhere,  and  you  said  he 


340  PETER  GARB  AD  INK. 

was  wishing  you  would  go  there  with  him  some  day,  you 
know,  so,  if,  as  is  likely,  you'd  prefer  getting  back  to  the 
old  times  by  an  old  road  like,  with  one  that  walked  it  with 
you  for  company  when  you  were  younger,  you  and  I'll  put 
off  the  sea  till  after  you've  had  that  journey  with  Aptomar. 
That  was  the  thing  I  had  on  my  mind  chiefly  to  say  when  I 
came  down  to  Brighton  ;  so  think  it  over,  and  tell  me  the 
next  time  what  you  will  do  about  it." 

Mercy  looked  at  him  in  wonder  when  he  began  to  speak, 
but  as  Carradine  made  his  meaning  more  and  more  intelli- 
gible, the  change  in  her  face  told  how  this  expression  of  his 
confidence  and  tender  thoughtfulness,  moved  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  you  have  never  been  there.  I  shall  be 
your  guide.  I  shall  love  to  think  of  eternity  standing  there 
with  you.  For  I  shall  be  strong  as  having  its  assurance 
with  me,  attested  by  you." 


So  Carradine  drove  back  to  Martindale,  and  by  the  next 
morning  the  neighbors  were  all  talking  of  the  wedding  that 
was  to  be  celebrated  in  the — schoolhouse!  next  Wednesday 
morning. 

And  Mrs.  Johnson,  though  at  first  alarmed,  taken  all 
aback,  dumbfounded,  as  she  declared,  by  the  part  she  was 
expected  to  take  in  the  preparations,  soon  came  to  regard 
the  service  she  must  render  in  quite  another  light ;  and  she 
addressed  herself  to  the  task  of  getting  up  a  wedding  feast 
for  Mr.  Carradine.  as  to  the  one  great  work  of  her  life.  The 
hero  of  this  festival  had  the  tact  to  make  her  see  that  on  her 
operations  would  fall  the  glory  of  the  day.  A  man  like  him- 
self, he  said,  never  married  but  once.  Only  one  woman 
could  have  been  made  for  him  ;  besides,  Martindale  would 
not  endure  the  shock  of  more  than  one  such  surprise  as  he 
had  given  the  town.  So  Mrs.  Johnson  must  be  up  and  do- 
ing. She  must  take  counsel  with  the  knowing  ones  of 
Brighton  city,  as  he  for  his  part  had  not  been  above  doing  ; 
nothing  must  be  omitted  at  that  banquet  that  money  and 
painstaking  could  procure.  She  must  go  to  the  confection- 
er's, and  buy  the  ornamental  cakes,  the  frozen  pyramids,  the 
various  ginicracks  and  devices  of  the  table  to  set  it  off — no 


THE     WEDDING-DAY,     AND     PLACE.  341 

matter  what  the  cost — let  her  talk  with  Miss  Brown,  the 
Commissioner's  daughter,  and  find  out  what  folks  did  when 
they  did  their  very  best  on  such  occasions.  For  Martindale 
should  be  won,  the  very  heart  of  it,  by  a  feast  which,  if 
prepared  in  honor  of  one  woman,  they,  at  least,  should  see 
and  share. 

But  the  cider,  and  the  wines,  namely,  the  gooseberry,  the 
currant,  and  the  frost-grape,  and  the  raspberry-vinegar,  she 
must  take  from  her  own  store,  for  no  other  vintage  could 
supply  any  thing  to  equal  Mrs.  Johnson's. 

And  Huldah  Green  said  to  Miranda  Roy  : 

"  Randy,  you  oughter  get  up  something  for  this  weddin'. 
You  and  Sally.  You  oughter  trim  the  school'us,  and  have 
the  childern  walk  in  a  procession,  with  flowers  in  their 
hands,  and  their  shoulder-knots  of  blue  ribbin.  The  Elder 
will  give  the  ribbin.  He  wouldn't  stand  at  any  little  thing 
that  would  give  them  a  pleasure.  I  saw  such  a  sight  once 
when  I  was  a  girl.  And  it  would  be  pretty  for  Miss  Fuller. 
As  neat  for  her  as  for  any  one  that  ever  I  heard  of.  If  they 
was  all  dressed  in  white  !  You  find  Sally  Green,  Mirandy, 
and  get  her  over  there  to  help  you  trim  the  school'us. 
She's  a  help,  if  you  can  get  her  to  it.  She  knotvs  how  it 
oughter  be  done.  Try,  now." 

But  Randy  did  not  need  such  urgent  solicitation  ;  she 
had  consented  to  the  decoration  the  instant  Huldah  men- 
tioned it. 

— And  thus  by  Wednesday  morning,  the  finest  October 
morning  ever  seen,  the  wreaths  were  tied  and  hung,  the  fes- 
toons swung  between  the  windows,  tied  with  white  "  rib- 
bins,"  and  with  blue  ;  boughs  were  in  all  the  corners,  and 
over  the  teacher's  desk  was  spread  a  white  cloth  that 
fell  to  the  floor  on  all  sides,  and  upon  this  cloth  were  sewed, 
in  various  devices  of  heartshape,  diamond,  crowns,  and  stars, 
sprigs  of  evergreen. 

And  the  children  were  in  uniform,  that  end  being  se- 
cured by  much  washing  of  hands  and  faces,  by  patient 
hair  combing,  and  by  the  anticipations  of  childhood,  as  well 
as  by  the  blue  shoulder-knots  and  the  white  dresses  of  the 
girls.  And  there  they  stood  marshaled  before  the  school- 
house,  ready  to  march  in  when  the  bride  should  arrive. 

The  schoolhouse  was  filled  with  Carradine's  neighbors, 
Carradine's  friends,  they  must  be  hailed  for  this  day.  Had 


342  PETER  CARRADINK. 

they  not  come,  attired  in  their  best,  to  witness  his  wedding, 
to  partake  of  his  feast  ?  So  there  they  all  were,  well  packed, 
to  wait  half  an  hour  before  the  time  appointed  should  be 
told.  For  every  one  had  said,  when  the  clock  strikes,  Car- 
radine  will  be  here.  He  was  never  known  yet  to  keep  a 
body  waiting  when  he  had  made  an  appointment. 

Mrs.  Johnson  and  Huldah  Green,  meanwhile,  were  super- 
intending the  tables  in  the  grove,  which  literally  were  la- 
den with  good  cheer.  Report  had  gone  abroad  concerning 
the  decorations  provided  for  those  tables,  and  the  unlimited 
supplies  from  the  shops  in  Brighton  city,  and  the  kitchens 
of  Mrs.  Johnson.  Curiosity  to  see  them  was  hardly  out- 
done by  curiosity  to  see  the  bride  of  Peter  Carradine,  as 
she  came  over  the  hills  from  Brighton,  and  the  hands  of 
milliners.  There  was  many  a  young  girl  waiting  the  cut  of 
some  new  garment,  till 'she  should  see  with  her  own  eyes 
the  fashion  of  Miss  Fuller's  bridal  gear. 

And  while  the  people  in  the  schoolhouse  and  about  the 
door  waited  patient,  or  arrived  in  haste  and  heat,  Mrs. 
Johnson  and  Huldah  Green  superintended  still,  those  tables 
in  the  grove. 

And  Mrs.  Johnson  said,  "  This  day  must  the  great  Mar- 
tindale  hatchet  be  buried  out  of  sight,  and  shame  to  him 
who  digs  it  up  agin  !"  She  had  a  tusk  before  her.  It  had 
been  a  relief,  in  view  of  Mr.  Carradine's  marriage,  that  she 
had  a  work  to  do  that  should  keep  her  busy,  mind  and  body, 
up  to  the  hour  of  the  ceremony.  A  sore  thing  it  was  still 
for  Mrs.  Johnson  that  he  must  go  the  common  way,  and  gin 
himself  up  to  some  woman  to  be  led  about,  though  to  be  sure 
Miss  Fuller  might  be  trusted  to  that  leading,  if  any  woman 
could.  Johnson  had  reasoned  with  his  wife  ;  she  had  rea- 
soned with  herself;  she  knew  the  merits  of  this  business  as 
well  as  another — but  for  once  she  had  a  right  to  be  selfish, 
and  to  lament,  and  to  feel  that  she  was  waiting  on  the  bury- 
ing of  the  man — for  try  your  best  to  see  it,  there  isn't  so 
much  difference  z.tween  a  wedding  and  a  funeral !  Though 
Miss  Fuller  !  any  one  that  could  see  Mr.  Carradine  from 
morning  till  night  must  be  set  to  wondering  if  one  could  be 
much  happier  if  he  was  safe  in  heaven. 

Now  that  her  work  was  done,  though  her  care  was  not 
yet  ended,  she  had  much  to  do,  to  maintain  the  smile  which 
she  had  determined  should  stand  victorious  against  her  grief 


THE     WEDDING-DAY,     AND     PLACE.  343 

and  fears  this  day.  Often  her  lip  was  quivering.  Often 
she  started  up  and  bustled  about,  as  if  her  life  depended  on 
her  doing,  and  she  said  to  herself,  "  Well,  for  sure  if  I 
don't  choke  to  death  ere  night,  of  keeping  down  these  feel- 
ings !  Oh,  if  it  was  over  !" 

But  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  never  fairly  begin. 

How  well  Miranda  looked  this  day  !  All  Martindale  gazed 
on  her  with  smiles  of  approbation.  She  belonged  to  them! 
It  had  once  been  thought  that  Handy  might  marry  Mr.  Car- 
radine.  Perhaps  Randy  had  herself  sometimes  dreamed  of 
it,  for  once  she  had  thought  of  marriage  as  her  neighbors 
were  htill  thinking  of  it,  as  a  mortal  device,  not  as  a  Divine 
Institution.  Old  Samuel  Roy  in  past  days  had  a  vision  of 
the  kind.  But  she  did  no-t  look,  in  truth,  as  if  any  grief  or 
disappointment  weighed  on  her  heart  this  morning.  Her 
face  was  more  serene,  her  aspect  more  happy,  than  any  one 
had  seen  it  in  a  time  ;  and  so  naturally  she  wore  this  compo- 
sure, that  people  forgot  their  own  comments  on  her  gravity 
in  the  days  that  were  not  so  long  gone  "by.  No  face  had 
now  a  softer  smile,  no  voice  a  gentler  tone,  no  heart  a  kind- 
lier wish — nor  could  a  soul  of  them  all  have  been  as  success- 
ful in  preserving  order  among  the  impatient  children  as  was 
she,  who  moved  in  their  midst  with  a  grace  unlike  Miss  Ful- 
ler's, it  is  true,  but  a  grace  that  was  to  be  discerned. 

Once  Randy  took  Sally's  hand  in  hers,  and  looked  at  her, 
in  a  strange  questioning  way,  that  made  Sally  uncomforta- 
ble ;  but  nobody  thought  that  she  anticipated  the  arrival  of 
the  wedding  party  with  a  degree  of  interest  that  was  un- 
known to  them  ail. 


Mr.  Carradine  drove  from  Brighton  his  bay  horses,  and  a 
beautiful  new  carriage,  whose  top  was  thrown  back — and  it 
made  a  spectacle.  Everybody  on  the  look-out  saw  the  pair 
as  they  passed  through  the  country. 

A  man  was  in  waiting  to  take  charge  of  the  horses,  when 
he  threw  down  the  reins,  and  alighted  from  his  carriage,  not 
as  though  that  vehicle  were  his  old  farm  waggon.  Then  he 
helped  Miss  Fuller.  And  they  all  saw,  as  if  with  one  vision, 
that  she  was  dressed  in  white,  (because  the  bridegroom 
wished  it,)  and  that  she  left  her  shawl  and  bonnet  in  the 


344  PETER   CARRADINE. 

carriage,  and  that  she  looked  a  little  pale — but,  that  she 
smiled  when  she  saw  the  children,  and  seemed  to  be  from 
that  moment  assured,  as  if  conscious  that  she  walked  among 
her  friends. 

They  came  up  to  the  porch  together,  and  waited  in  the 
shade,  two  minutes  perhaps,  while  Mr.  Carradine  was  giv- 
ing some  directions  in  reference  to  the  horses.  What  a  si- 
lence of  expectation  fell  on  every  soul  there,  large  and  little 
— how  the  eyes  of  the  company  ran  from  the  Brighton  min- 
ister sitting  quiet  on  the  platform  behind  the  teacher's  ta- 
ble, to  the  group  in  the  doorway,  the  gay  children,  who  came 
marching  in  now,  heralding  the  Bride  ! 

The  ceremony  was  a  brief  one,  but  it  was  followed  by  an 
address  that  was  a  surprise,  not  only  for  the  matter  and  the 
manner  of  it,  which  were  eloquent,  but  also  on  account  of 
the  reception  it  met ;  for  Mr.  Carradine,  reversing  the  or- 
der of  congratulations,  shook  hands  with  the  minister,  and 
thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  with  a  freedom  that  was 
charming  to  behold  ;  then  he  saluted  his  bride,  and  led  the 
way  into  the  grove — and  all  the  people  followed,  with  con- 
gratulations in  their  hearts,  which  they  offered  in  their  turn, 
and  every  expression  was  full  of  good  will.  And  presently 
the  Lady  of  the  feast  was  seeking  out  the  timid,  and  Mr. 
Carradinc  stood,  the  model  of  satisfaction,  observing  her 
conduct,  and  the  way  that  everybody  praised  and  admired 
his  wife.  She  was  the  school  teacher  last  week,  and  every- 
body tlien  admired  her — but  by  what  sort  of  magic  has  that 
bud  bloomed  into  this  flower,  that  people  should  now,  of 
one  accord,  it  seemed  so,  hail  her,  by  every  show  of  defer- 
ence, and  every  look  of  admiration,  the  Lady  of  Martin- 
dale  ? 

And  what  a  feast  was  that !  Children  of  Martindale,  will 
its  brightness  ever  fade  out  of  your  recollection  1  What  a 
time  to  date  by  when  you  shall  be  old — for  never  again  shall 
you  see  anything,  no  matter  what  future  splendors  wait  up- 
on you,  to  compare  with  the  dazzle,  and  the  glitter,  and  the 
delightsomeness  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  feast.  Everybody  must 
taste  everything;  the  meats  and  the  sauces,  the  ices  and  the 
cakes  ;  the  preserves  and  the  conserves  ;  the  dainties,  for- 
eign and  domestic — the  elaborate  mottoes,  the  dainty  mac- 
caroons  ;  the  kisses,  the  marmalades,  the  strange  fruits  no- 
body can  name — THE  BRIDE'S  LOAF  !  And  in  a  wrappage  of 


THE     WEDDING-DAY,     AND     PLACE.  345 

white  paper,  tied  with  a  white  satin  ribbon,  of  which  there 
seems  to  be  no  end,  every  soul  must  have  a  slice  of  the 
bride's  loaf  to  carry  home  and  dream  over. 

Memorable  day  !     What  dreams  must  wait  upon  it! 

Mr.  Carradine  at  length  drove  off  from  the  scene  of  the 
feasting  in  triumph  with  his  bride.  Everybody  wished 
them  joy.  To  the  sea  shore,  to  the  mountain  land.  Among 
mists  and  shadows — under  the  great  branches  of  the  gigan- 
tic trees  that  were  flourishing  ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  keel 
grated  the  New  World's  strand  ;  or  clinging  in  the  rough 
ascent  of  heights  that  would  seem  to  overlook  the  world  ;  or 
sailing  along  rivers,  between  smooth  banks  and  sunny  fields 
— between  hills  and  famed  mountains  ;  or,  whirling  over 
lofty  bridges  through  the  narrow  gorges,  across  broad  plains 
of  sunshine  ;  crowded  along  crowded  city  streets,  in  crowd- 
ed omnibuses  :  wherever  they  went  on  that  long  great  jour- 
ney of  hundreds  of  miles,  night  and  day  beside  her,  he  had 
consciousness,  blessed  and  supreme,  that  she  was  with  him  ; 
spirit  as  well  as  body  was  near.  As  let  down  from  Heaven 
the  great  Vision  descended,  he  could  not  misconstrue  it. 
Mercy  did  love  and  did  trust  Carradine.  Comfortable  hope. 
Assurance  of  peace.  Let  them  journey  on. 


Meanwhile  there  in  the  grove  came  at  last  an  end  of 
feasting.  People  began  to  disperse  ;  old  folk  strolled  away 
homeward  in  couples,  and  in  larger  companies,  thinking  of 
old  times,  and  talking  of  these  strange  new  scenes  in  Mar- 
tindale.  The  children  ran  and  played,  and  soiled  their 
clothes,  and  did  the  deeds  of  recklessness  which  prepared 
for  a  tearful  bedtime.  Blue  shoulder  knots  lost  something 
of  their  splendor — and  in  the  grove,  and  by  the  roadside, 
lay  many  a  fading  flower,  since  the  Bride  the  flowers  were 
plucked  to  honor  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  wedding  was 
all  over. 

And  Mrs.  Johnson  came  back,  flurried  and  heated,  with 
eyes  looking  very  red,  from  the  concealment  she  had  sought 
the  instant  she  had  shaken  Mercy's  hand  in  parting.  She 
came  back  to  her  wonted  diligence,  and  faithful  supervision 
of  affairs.  Huldah  Green  and  Bandy  "  stood  by  her"  to  the 
last  bit  of  packing  —  and  so  were  the  tables  and  the 

15* 


346  PETER    CAItKADIXE. 

grove  well  cleared,  and  the  wagons  went  groaning  up  the 
hill ;  and,  all  things  being  considered,  the  damage  the  glass 
and  the  crockery  had,  was  not  sufficient  to  mention. 

So  the  wedding  ended  ;  and  Mrs.  Johnson,  sighing  out  her 
last  waking  thought  to  faithful  Johnson,  said,  "  It  might  'a 
been  worse." 


HOME.  347 


CHAPTER   XL. 


HOME. 

AT  last  they  came  back  again  to  Martindale.  And  life 
seems  to  go  on  as  usual  there.  Carradine  misses  nothing  of 
the  old  house.  How  many  times  has  Mrs.  Johnson  secretly 
predicted  that  he  would,  when  all  this  fuss  was  over,  and  he 
came  to  be  settled  in  a  place  that  wasn't  the  old  place  at 
all,  and  he  saw  all  these  new-fangled  things  he  had  been  per- 
suaded into  buying,  all  these  instead  of  the  old  !  He  was 
not  the  man  who  would  be  like  to  feel  at  home  with  such 
trash !  The  very  last  man  in  the  world.  She  had  seen 
enough  to  know,  long  before  the  time  came  that  he  was  mar- 
ried !  Was  ever  a  man  so  restless  ?  He  had  as  good  as  al- 
lowed that  there  wasn't  a  room  in  the  house  he  felt  as  if  he 
could  sit  in. 

Come  up  now,  Mrs.  Johnson,  let  us  take  an  observation. 

What  makes  a  man  feel  at  home  in  the  house  ?  Is  it  a 
lot  of  old  rubbish  ?  Old  furniture — old  bare  walls — smoke 
stain,  and  sand  brush  ?  Old  red  paint,  peeling  off  the  clap- 
boards 1  An  old  arm  chair  in  the  piazza  corner  ?  A  dark 
little  bed-room,  very  meanly  furnished  ?  A  few  old  familiar 
objects  ?  Then  Peter  Carradine  verily  is  done  for.  Pray 
let  us  write  finis,  and  go  our  several  ways. 

Is  it  a  face  that  is  always  kind  ?  Is  it  a  voice  that  is  al- 
ways friendly  ?  Is  it  a  graciousness  that  never  stoops  to 
frown,  that  constantly  acknowledges  the  rights  of  others  to 
their  tastes  and  pleasure  ?  That  is  cordial,  not  obtrusive  ? 
That  is  quick  to  discern  the  charitable  impulse — the  good 
purpose  in  defeat — slow  to  condemn  ?  Hopeful  ? 

Is  it  to  leave  him  absolutely  master  of  his  rightful  posi- 
tion— the  large  liberty  to  go  and  come,  trusting  for  her 


348  PETER   CARRADINE. 

part  religiously  in  the  virtue  and  the  sovereign  power  of  her 
love — knowing,  as  if  she  read  it  out  of  Holy  Writ,  for  her 
own  heart  has  told  her,  that,  if  she  shall  ever  cease  to  hold 
the  love  and  trust  which  she  has  won,  the  fault,  as  the  loss,  is 
hers? 

It  is  indeed  Peter  Carradine,  and  not  at  all  Mrs.  Johnson, 
whom  Mercy's  love  is  to  affect,  so  that  all  changes  and  all 
places  shall  seem  well  if  she  but  dwells  among  them,  giving 
daily  benediction  to  his  life. 

Good  woman,  do  you  see  Carradine  sitting  after  sunset  in 
the  great  arm-chair  he  has  wheeled  from  the  little  room 
which  has  been  changed  into  this  library  for  Mercy  ? 

Do  you  see  them  sitting  there  together,  man  and  wife,  and 
side  by  side  ?  She  has  been  reading  to  him  ;  but  now  the 
reading  is  over.  It  is  so  quiet  one  might  fall  asleep  were 
not  life  so  imminent  ! 

"  Ajax  is  getting  to  be  a  perfect  giant,"  says  Peter,  speak- 
ing of  the  famous  animal  he  bought  in  the  spring,  to  whom 
Mercy  had  given  his  fine  name.  "  You  must  go  down  and 
see  him  storm  about  the  lot.  He's  a  beautiful  creature,  a 
whirlwind  with  hoofs  and  horns.  Oh,  here — that  reminds 
me,  I  have  a  letter  from  your  cousin,  for  you,  Mercy." 

"  My  cousin  ?  That's  not  fair.  If  you  don't  claim  him, 
Peter  !" 

"  Our  fine  cousin,  Aptomar  !  There  it  is.  Nobody  but  a 
lawyer  could  manage  to  write  such  a  hand  as  that.  I  won- 
der the  lettter  ever  got  as  far  as  Martindale  on  its  own  show- 
ing." 

"  'Tis  a  curious  hand,"  she  mused,  looking  at  it  curiously. 
"We  must  see  what  he  says  to  us." 

"  The  writing  looks  like  him,"  said  Carradine,  "  not  easy 
to  read.  Deep — showy." 

"  I  wish  he  were  married  to  the  woman  who  was  made  for 
him.  Do  you  suppose  he  will  ever  find  her  ?" 

"  How  would  any  one  have  answered  for  me  in  the 
spring  ?" 

"  He  wants  to  come  and  -visit  us  next  August.  We  have 
a  long  while  to  make  up  our  mind  whether  we  shall  let  him 
come,  Peter." 

"  So,"  he  answered  slowly.  "  It  would  be  pleasant  to 
have  him  here  ;  if  he  could  take  it  easy !  Johnson  had  one 
of  those  city  fellows  up  once  on  a  visit,  and  I  say  you  never 


HOME.  349 

saw  a  body  so  nearly  dead  and  done  for  as  the  poor  fellow 
was  when  he  went  away — Mrs.  Johnson,  too,  for  that  mat- 
ter. But  Aptomar  isn't  of  his  kind.  He  would  expect  us 
to  turn  the  country  upside  down,  or  inside  out  for  him.  I'm 
glad  he  isn't  coming  this  winter.  Suppose  a  man  may  say 
that  to  his  wife,  and  not  be  taken  for  a  crusty  old  curmud- 
geon. But  we  are  doing  well  enough,  are  we,  Mercy  ?  Is  it 
too  quiet  ?  Is  it  lonely  up  here  for  you  ?" 

"  Lonely  V 

Do  you  see,  my  good  woman,  how  he  smiles  at  that  ?  He 
is  not  deceived  by  her  answer.  He  knows  it  is  very  truth. 
He  knows  that,  when  he  comes  home  from  any  superintend- 
ence of  his  farm-work,  no  matter  where  he  finds  her,  or  how 
occupied,  he  shall  see  a  satisfied  and  happy  wife.  And  how 
should  it  be  said  that,  to  such  a  man,  the  conviction  that  he 
is  the  author  of  the  happy  fortunes  of  such  a  woman  was  in- 
sufficient to  secure  his  deep  content  ? 

Then,  oh  marvellous  !  it  is  not  in  walls  and  furniture,  not 
even  in  the  accustomed  and  the  familiar,  that  the  secret  of 
the  home-joy  lies  !  It  is  not  in  being  near  the  usual  forms, 
within  sound  of  the  familiar  speech.  Nay,  among  kinsfolk 
there  be  aliens  !  and  around  the  homestead  hearthstone,  for- 
eigners !  albeit  none  who  drew  not  their  first  breath  under 
that  very  roof. 

Carradine  took  a  just  pride  in  the  beauty  he  had  been 
able  to  put  upon  and  within  this  Bronson  house.  He  saw 
his  wife  so  come  into  possession  of  these  things,  and  so  make 
use  of  them,  bringing  out  their  fitness  so  as  to  prove  herself 
verily  mistress  of  all,  the  china  in  her  hands,  the  carpet 
under  her  feet,  the  piano  under  her  touch,  the  pictures,  few 
and  fair,  on  which  her  eyes  rested,  all  things  of  this  house 
came  under  her  superintendence,  or  within  her  use,  what  a 
fitness,  what  a  right !  And  he  was  hers  through  all,  and  she 
was  his  ! 

See  how  they  understood  and  lived  for  each  other. 

On  that  day  of  the  Aptomar  letter  they  walked  over  the 
hill  to  visit  lordly  Ajax  in  his  lot.  And  they  passed  the  old 
Carradine  ruin. 

On  their  way  back,  as  if  by  mutual  agreement,  though  no 
word  had  been  spoken,  they  walked  into  the  field.  It  was 
late  in  the  autumn,  and  a  low  mournful-sounding  wind  was 
comin<y  over  the  hill  from  the  woodland,  bare  of  leaves.  A 


350  PETER   CARRADINE. 

bird  was  hopping  round  the  place,  and  some  wild  flowers, 
which  the  frost  could  not  kill,  were  shining  through  the 
leaves  of  the  Virginia  creeper,  that  threw  its  red  and  splen- 
did drapery  over  and  around  a  mound  of  stones. 

Thus  spoke  Carradine  : 

"  It  was  just  such  a  night  that  I  walked  here  twenty  years 
ago,  and  looked  at  the  old  house,  and  thought  I  would  come 
here  to  live.  I  had  rented  the  lot  and  the  house — it  was 
here  I  began  to  work.  I  thought,  when  I  looked  the  place 
over,  that  if  I  got  some  one  to  help  me  for  a  day  or  two,  I 
could  put  the  place  into  some  sort  of  shape,  and  live  in  it. 
It  was  years  since  I  had  stood  under  that  roof.  I  can't  de- 
scribe to  you  what  feelings  I  had  when  I  opened  the  old 
door  and  looked  in.  I  felt  sick  and  desolate,  as  I  had  never 
seemed  to  myself  before.  It  made  me  shudder  when  I  stood 
there  with  my  hand  on  the  lock,  as  if  I  had  seen  the  whole 
family  sitting  round  that  black,  cold  fire-place.  Every  one 
of  their  faces !  And  they  did  not  look  inviting,  as  if  they'd 
have  me  come  in.  So  I  thought.  I  had  put  such  a  distance 
between  me  and  them  !  But  I  tried  to  shake  off  that  feel- 
ing. It  seemed  to  be  something  to  be  shook  off.  I  walked 
through  the  little  rooms,  thought  over  what  could  be  done, 
and  made  up  my  mind  I'd  live  there,  and  what  I  would  do. 
I  remember  how  high  the  wi#d  rose  before  I  got  through 
my  calculations,  so  that  when  I  tried  to  shut  the  door  it  flew 
open,  and  it  seemed  I  should  never  get  it  shut.  But  I  did, 
finally,  and  fastened  it  with  a  string,  for  I  couldn't  bear  to 
think  it  might  blow  open,  and  the  storm  beat  in.  For  it  had 
been  a  home  once,  and  I  hoped  it  might  be  again."  He 
paused  here  for  a  moment — then  he  went  on,  sure  of  the  lis- 
tener, who  stood  attending  with  much  quiet  sympathy,  such 
unfeigned  interest,  to  his  words, 

"  But  the  next  day,  when  I  came  up,  it  was  early  in  the 
morning,  before  I  went  to  work,  the  door  stood  wide  open, 
the  chimney  had  blown  down,  and  the  roof  was  broken  in. 
I  was  in  despair.  I  could  not  set  to  work  to  repair  the 
damage  myself,  and  had  nothing  to  pay  another  man  for  do- 
ing it.  I  was  already  in  debt.  So  it  had  to  go  to  ruin. 
And  I  think  now  it  was  better  for  me  that  the  storm  took  it 
when  it  <iid.  It  might  not  a1  been  well  to  live  in  the  way  I 
was  intending  to  live.  I  can  see  it  was  best  for  me  to  go 
among  people  who  had  different  habits  and  ideas  from  mine. 


HOME.  351 

It  helped  to  get  me  out  of  some  desperate  hard  ways.  I 
used  to  encourage  the  belief  that  I  could  see  my  mo- 
ther's smile  on  me  whenever  I  felt  that  I  was  doing  the 
right  thing— and  I  can't  tell  you  how  many  times  I  have 
heard  her  saying,  '  Be  of  good  cheer.'  And  the  voice  seem- 
ed to  be  that  of  a  happy  person,  who  sees  through  troubles 
and  beyond  them,  and  knows  that  all  will  come  out  right  in 
the  end,  it  always  made  me  glad.  I  could  not  help  taking 
it  for  a  token  that  where  she  now  lived  there  was  no  sort  of 
trouble.  That  she  was  happy." 


Oh,  town  of  Martindale,  how  do  you  stand  convicted  ! 
Here  was  he,  counted  for  years  your  worst  man,  confessing 
to  a  woman,  with  tremulous  voice,  the  thoughts  and  the  affec- 
tions that  ruled  him  in  years  when  your  sympathy  was  cold, 
your  words  of  good  cheer  few,  and  your  suspicions  cruel. 

Who  among  you  could  confess  to  such  aspirations  as  in 
those  very  years  were  lifting  him,  by  the  memory  of  his  mo- 
ther, a  thought  strong  to  salvation  ! — A  memory  apparently 
so  inefficient,  on  which  nevertheless  his  whole  being  might 
be  lifted  out  of  the  depths  of  sin  into  the  Heaven  of  love  ! 

"What  lives  are  these  we  harshly  judge,  and  promptly  sen- 
tence 1  If,  through  blank  wastes  of  years,  we  can  look  back 
and  see  a  childhood  guided  by  a  tender  hand  through  whatso- 
ever human  ill,  a  childhood  wherein  was  planted  the  good 
seed  of  eternal  life,  let  us  have  reverence  to  be  still,  and 
faith  to  believe  that  the  eternal  life  shall  yet  come  to  bloom- 
ing, though  clouds  and  darkness  seem  to  shroud  the  erring, 
to  separate  him  from  any  reasonable  human  hope  ! 

"  Woman,  behold  thy  son." 


"  We  might  have  these  ruins  cleared  away,"  said  Mercy, 
at  length,  "  and  some  evergreeens  from  the  glen  would  make 
a  pretty  spot  of  it — with  a  summer-house  built  just  where 
the  house  stood.  Some  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  morning-glories 
running  over  the  lattice  work."  She  stopped,  and  seemed 
to  muse  over  the  vision  of  loveliness  that  rose  up,  flower- 
crowned,  from  this  unsightly  heap. 


352  PETER  CAIIRADINE. 

Carradine  walked  quite  round  the  ruin  before  he  answered 
her. 

"It  shall  be  done,"  but  he  did  not  add  his  thought: 
"  "Who  but  Mercy  would  have  thought  of  such  a  thing  ? 
What  a  woman  I  She  sees  everything." 

"  And  we'll  plant  the  trees  so  as  not  to  hide  the  fine  pros- 
pect when  we  come  here  to  overlook  our  fortunes." 

"  I'll  have  the  stuff  cleared  away  to-morrow,"  said  Carra- 
dine. "  We  can  lay  these  flat  stones  for  a  walk." 

"  And  the  hearthstone  shall  be  the  door-step.  We  will 
not  forget  the  past — you  and  I.  It  shall  teach  us." 

He  was  thinking  while  she  said  this  that  he  would  like  to 
have  engraved  on  that  door-step  that  it  was  Mercy  Fuller, 
wife  of  Peter  Carradine,  who  desired  that  this  honor  should 
be  done  to  the  memory  of  Joshua  and  Marcia  Carradine. 
He  was  hoping  that,  from  on  high,  his  mother's  eyes  might 
look  down  on  his  joy.  Thinking  that  he  was  a  saved  man, 
and  a  made  man.  And  he  smiled  on  Mercy. 

Take  that  smile,  dear  Mercy,  entertain  it  as  an  angel ;  keep 
its  memory  forever.  She  does  not  need  such  bidding. 


UNDER   THE   SPREAD  EAGLETS  WINGS.      353 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

RANDY  UNDER  THE  SPREAD  EAGLEJS  WINGS. 

IN  the  spring  that  followed  the  long  hard  winter,  died  old 
Samuel  Roy.  Rheumatism  dropped  its  chains  in  the  last 
days,  and  he  went  out  of  sight  with  a  smile  on  his  pale  face, 
free  from  pain,  and  free  from  all  misgivings.  The  birds  that 
ushered  in  the  bright  young  year,  sang  round  the  house  such 
songs  as  it  seems  to  me  had  a  glorified  echo  as  he  advanced, 
a  young,  gentle  and  reverent  spirit,  among  the  budding  splen- 
dors of  his  New  Year  with  the  Immortals.  Peace  to  thee, 
blameless  Samuel !  Thou  shalt  never  repent  thy  prayers, 
nor  take  shame  to  thyself  for  thy  faith  !  Thou  shalt  be  no 
more  distracted  by  the  markets  nor  by  mortgages  !  Neither 
shalt  thou  feel  any  more  the  weight  of  debts  that  have  no 
record  !  Never  more  shalt  thou  be  cramped  and  straight- 
ened !  With  integrity  hast  thou  passed  through  the  tight 
places  of  thy  journey  !  thy  hard  hands  are  undented,  and 
thy  trusting  spirit  is  unwrinkled  of  doubt !  I  see  thee  sitting 
in  a  pleasanter  shade  than  that  which  borders  the  fine  lot  so 
dear  to  thee.  It  is  not  the  shade  of  willow  trees — the  bran- 
ches are  not  drooping,  and  no  dry  season  can  affect  the  flow- 
ings  of  the  river  on  whose  banks  thou  standest,  free  from 
pain. 

During  the  latter  months  of  winter  his  rheumatism  had  a 
development  that  rendered  him  quite  helpless.  Miranda 
was  obliged  then  to  give  up  her  school.  He  needed  all  her 
care.  Night  and  day  he  needed  her — her  tender  love,  as 
well  as  her  strong,  gentle  nursing. 

From  the  day  of  her  talk  with  Mr.  Jobson  when  she 
tried  to  make  him  see  what  a  mistake  they  both  had  made, 
she  was  a  wonder  to  herself.  On  the  farm  and  in  the  school- 


354  PETER   CARRADINE. 

house,  she  worked  with  an  energy  which  surprised  no  one 
but  herself,  for  she  had  a  reputation  for  industry  and  effi- 
cience.  She  saved  her  father  all  the  pain  from  which  no 
mere  occupation  could  deliver  her:  Of  what  had  passed  be- 
tween her  and  Senior,  he  knew  nothing.  He  had  suspected 
nothing — and  why  trouble  him  ? 

As  for  Jobson.  she  believed  she  saw  how  he  would  take 
this  disappointment — and  she  did  see  it  quite  clearly.  He 
had  kept  his  secret  from  the  first ;  he  would  keep  it  to  the 
last.  If  he  took  to  himself  any  consolation,  it  would  be  this, 
that  he  had  never  been  taken  in  by  any  of  this  "  religious 
humbug,"  that  he  had  withheld  his  assent  from  doctrines 
which  could  only  make  of  men  smooth  hypocrites  and  respec- 
table villains.  He  had  hoped  that,  in  Randy's  case,  religion 
would  not  get  the  upper  hand  of  her — but  it  had,  it  seemed. 
Well. 

He  would  never  refer  to  the  business  she  believed,  again. 
If  she  changed  her  mind  again  she  must  let  him  know,  for  he 
would  never  inquire  !  He  would  not  have  been  greatly  sur- 
prised had  Randy  changed  her  mind.  When  the  Spread 
Eagle  stood  up  in  all  its  glory — painted,  and  furnished  with 
the  new  furniture  he  felt  that  Randy's  common  sense  had 
not  quite  forsaken  her— she  must  repent — and  there  were 
ways  by  which  she  could  easily  manifest  repentance,  though 
she  did  not  humiliate  herself  so  far  as  to  make  a  confession 
of  her  folly.  And  he  would  not  exact  that  of  her. 

So  when  he  and  Randy  met  there  was  no  change  in  his 
demeanor ;  he  inquired  after  her  father,  as  he  had  always 
done — if  it  chanced  that  help  was  needed,  and  he  could  ren- 
der it,  he  did  so.  Christian  people  were  in  the  habit  of 
making  a  virtue  of  forgiveness  and  prating  much  about  it 
— he  would  show  her  that  a  man  could  be  a  man  without  the 
help  of  cant. 

When  she  said  to  him,  one  day,  meeting  him  by  chance  : 

"  Senior,  you  haven't  got  anything  to  show  for  the  money 
you  lent  father,  but  we  haven't  forgot  it.  You  shall 
have  it  again,  interest  and  all ;  and  if  you  will  make  out  a  note 
and  let  me  sign  it,  I  will  thank  you — so  that  if  anything 
should  happen  to  you  or  me,  and  our  farm  is  sold,  you  or  your 
family  will  be  sure  to  get  what's  owing  ." 

He  answered  : 

"  That  business  is  to  stand  just  as  I  put  it.     I  reckon  you 


UNDER  THE  SPREAD  EAGLE'S  WINGS.          355 

ain't  spiled  entirely  from  what  you  were.  There's  something 
left  of  Bandy  yet.  And  what's  left  I'll  trust  to.  Religion 
hasn't  spiled  ye  altogether."  .And,  so  speaking,  he  immedi- 
ately broke  up  the  conference. 

It  was  not  the  least  of  thoughts  that  troubled  Randy,  this 
conviction  that,  by  her,  Senior  had  come  to  cherish  less  rev- 
erence for  things  that  day  by  day  were  influencing  her  life 
more  and  more.  There  may  be  some  who  will  understand  the 
sort  of  desperation  with  which  she  prayed  for  him,  and  how, 
if  any  daring  deed  could  have  taken  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
by  violence  for  him,  possession  would  at  once  .have  been  be- 
stowed upon  the  innkeeper. 

Well,  in  one  sense,  for  her  was  the  filial  care  and  anxiety 
that  occupied  her  during  the  winter  months.  What  a  life ! — 
Strong  and  unyielding  in  the  shows  of  cheerfulness  making 
light  of  labors,  singing  the  old  man's  favorite  hymns  with  him, 
reading  from  his  sacred  books  to  him,  to  which  little  stock 
Mercy  Carradine  had  contributed  some  precious  treasures ; 
thus  the  time  passed  away. 

When  I  think  how  different  it  might  have  been  with 
Samuel,  when  I  remember  the  clouds  and  darkness  amid 
which  more  conspicuous  lives  have  set ;  how  pride,  and  lust, 
and  fashion,  have  tottered  from  their  thrones  and  perished 
in  their  palaces,  unanointed  of  love,  disenchanted  and  appal- 
led before  the  reality  they  have  contrived  to  disguise  but 
never  could  destroy — I  cannot  forget  that,  here,  in  this  hovel, 
by  the  wayside,  it  was  only  the  promise  of  Almighty  God 
that  was  fulfilled. 

When  I  think  how  different  it  might  have  been  with  Samuel, 
if,  in  place  of  woman's  patience  and  constancy,  her  faith  and 
courage,  the  form  these  virtues  have  when  they  issue  from 
a  woman's  heart — when  I  think  of  how  it  was,  and  how  it 
might  have  been,  in  that  humble  farmhouse,  had  even  the 
child's  grief  found  the  evidence  a  nature  like  hers  might 
well  have  given  it,  I  can  but  conclude  that,  if  ever  mortal 
might  expect  "reward"  on  the  score  of  mere  duty  done,  then 
Miranda  Roy  might  well  look  "  beyond  the  clouds  and  beyond 
the  tomb,"  and  trust  that  she  was  walking  in  the  way  that  is 
life,  and  that  leads  to  it. 

Many  evidences  of  sympathy  and  friendship  came  down, 
through  the  winter  from  the  great  house  to  the  small,  with 
much  enlivenment.  But  better  than  all  things  to  the  old 


356  PETER  CARRADINE. 

man,  than  easy  chair  from  Peter  Carradine,  or-  delicacies 
from  his  wife,  or  the  general  kindness  of  the  neighborhood, 
was  the  constant  presence  and  untiring  oare  of  Randy. 
Whoever  came  to  sit  for  half  an  hour  in  the  house  must 
hear  Samuel's  praises  of  his  daughter.  Whoever  prayed 
with  him,  and  Elder  Green  did  often,  must  hear  the  elo- 
quence that  praised  her  to  the  Lord,  and  thanked  Him  fur 
her,  as  the  choice  work  of  His  hands.  If  angels  were  com- 
missioned to  make  the  last  path  he  should  tread  an  easy 
one,  they  ministered  by  Randy.  How  could  they  work  the 
work  of  love  more  securely  than  thus  by  a  woman,  by  a 
child  ? 

Thus  did  he  go,  singing  simple  songs  of  failh  and  joy — he 
well  might  enter  Heaven  singing. 

Now  and  then  a  letter  came  to  Randy  from  Mr.  Collamer. 
Now  and  then  he  snatched  a  half  hour  from  the  rush  of  time, 
and  shut  himself  away  from  "  duty,"  to  read  some  words  of 
hers,  which  had  never  any  other  than  the  fullest,  deepest 
meaning  to  his  heart.  Do  I  mean  that  he  read  through  them 
sighs  and  tears,  and  weariness,  and  longing  ?  Did  he  envy 
Senior  Jobson  ?  Did  he  fear  for  Miranda  under  the  wings  of 
the  Spread  Eagle  ? 

Good  friends,  if  from  any  mortal  source  he  drew  refresh- 
ment for  his  life  and  fresh  courage  for  work,  it  was  from  this 
girl.  He  used  to  speak  much  of  her  to  his  acquaintances, 
but  he  had  ceased  from  that.  He  used  to  think  of  her  as  of  one 
whom  he  could  help.  He  thought  of  her  thus  no  longer. 
He,  on  a  time,  did  regard  her  as  in  many  things  inferior — 
needing  culture — needing  education.  He  had  ceased  to  so 
regard  her.  Doubtless  culture  and  education  might  yet  greatly 
avail  her  ;  but  he  did  not  thus  regard  her.  Not  because 
his  own  vanity  or  ease  could  be  affected  by  her  lacking,  as 
what  could  it  be  to  him,  or  how  affect  him  ?  Nay,  gradually 
she  had  passed  into  clear  identification  with  his  ideal  woman, 
without  which  no  man  lives.  But  his  actual  daily  life,  and 
self,  had  other  ambitions  than  encompassed  her.  He  was 
caught  in  strong  toils,  and  laboring  under  hallucinations  that 
can  effectually  blind  a  man  to  the  truth  he  has  once  in  his 
life  perceived,  that  his  ideal  is,  and  was  therefore  intended 
to  be,  the  fulfilment  of  his  actual.  A  sane  man  can  really 
not  imagine  an  impossibility.  He  can  imagine  nothing  that 
cannot  somewhere  be  wrought  out  or  discovered. 


UNDER  THE  SPREAD  EAGLE?S  WINGS.          357 

The  will  of  Heaven  was  as  clearly  manifest  in  and  for  these 
two  persons  as  ever  it  was  manifested  to  mortal  man  and 
woman — and  one  of  them  dimly  perceived  it  and  was  true  to 
her  perception. 

But  Mr.  Collamer  was  thinking  of  the  great  good  he  might 
accomplish  with  such  a  fortune  and  such  a  life  in  the  right 
and  holy  service,  as  this  of  Miss  Grey.  And  saying  to 
himself,  always  with  a  personal  application,  no  matter  what 
form  he  gave  to  the  saying  : 

"  We  are  probationers  ;  we  are  not  our  own.  Our  great 
work  in  this  life  is  to  live  not  to  ourselves,  but  to  our  fellow 
men,  and  thus  to  God.  Fortune,  reputation,  position,  wife 
and  children,  all  are  His,  and  to  be  used  for  Him." 

A  goodly  number  of  men  and  women  argue  in  that  way, 
and  sanctify  their  ambitons  thus.  So  is  love  crucified.  But 
is  he  kept  in  any  sepulchre  by  any  seal  or  guard  ?  Oh,  does 
he  not  have  his  inevitable  resurrection  and  ascend  out  of 
sight,  into  his  proper  Heavens,  yea,  beyond  sight  and  touch 
of  those  who  have  profaned  him  and  his  name  ?  But  he 
shall  come  again,  and  the  poor  earthlings  shall  see  their 
clouds  rolled  up  as  a  scroll !  Then  shall  the  book  be  opened. 
And  Love,  the  judge,  is  the  avenger  ! 

Have  you  seen  none  of  these  judgment  days  ?  And  do 
you  teach  your  children  expedience  or  law  ?  Sow  on !  but 
blush  not  for  your  harvest !  His  rain  falls  on  the  just  and 
on  the  unjust ;  and  His  sun  ripens  the  harvest,  be  it  grapes 
and  corn,  be  it  thorns  and  thistles. 

Sometimes  Mr.  Collamer  would  repeat  the  charitable  deeds 
and  other  good  works  of  Miss  Grey  for  Miranda's  edification. 
In  reply  she  could  grow  eloquent  thereon,  so  eloquent  in- 
deed that  he  deemed  his  gratitude  was  due  for  her  praises, 
and  expressing  it,  he  seemed  to  see  that  this  woman  of  Mar- 
tindale  occupied  a  position  from  which  her  blessing  might 
descend  upon  him,  "  for  without  contradiction,  the  less  is 
blest  of  the  better  !" 

But  he  might  have  read  a  better  gospel  story,  a  more 
heavenly  tale,  in  Randy's  report  of  the  last  days  of  her 
father's  life.  And  when  she  wrote  to  him  that  all  was  over, 
and  that  Mr.  Carradine,  according  to  his  agreement,  made 
before  her  father's  death,  had  taken  the  farm  off  her  hands, 
paying  for  it  at  the  same  high  rate  he  had  once  offered  for 
the  further  lot  beyond  the  brook,  and  that  some  heavy  debts 


358  PETER    CARRADINE. 

which  had  troubled  her  long  were  now  paid,  and  that  though 
far  from  rich,  she  was  not  poor  ;  moreover,  that  she  would 
now  tell  him  what  she  had  desired  to  tell  him  a  long  time,  that 
Mr.  Jobson  had  finished  his  building,  but  that  she  should 
never  go  into  the  Spread  Eagle  as  its  mistress,  because 
she  dared  not  think  it  was  the  will  of  God — and  that  Senior  had 
treated  her  kindly,  only  it  had  seemed  as  if  the  disappoint- 
ment had  set  him  against  the  Truth,  which  was  now  all  in  all 
to  her — would  he  not  pray  with  her  that  God  would  enlighten 
that  poor  man's  darkness,  and  show  him  the  only  beauty 
that  was  to  be  desired  ;  moreover,  that  since  she  had  left 
her  old  home  she  was  living  at  the  blacksmith's,  taking 
charge  of  Junior's  house  and  children,  and  looking  after  the 
servants  who  worked  for  Senior  Jobson,  and  that  this  was 
altogether  unexpected  to  her  ;  but  it  had  been  asked  of  her 
the  very  day  after  the  funeral,  so  that,  instead  of  staying 
with  Mrs.  Carradine  until  all  things  concerning  her  could  be 
arranged,  she  was  now  superintending  her  neighbor's  house 
and  children,  and  exerting  herself  to  alleviate  the  cares 
of  poor  Junior's  wife.  When  she  wrote  all  this  to  Mr.  Col- 
lamer,  and  he  read  the  same,  his  heart  was  moved  to  its 
foundations,  and  he  said  distinctly  to  himself: 

"  I  ought  to  say,  before  all  others  if  a  man  only  had  a 
right  to  heed  inclinations,  to  see  in  his  desires  the  will  of 
God  !  I  ought  to  say  to  her,  my  heart  is  open  to  you.  Come 
in !  let  me  be  what  you  shall  live  for  in  place  of  your  dead 
father!  Let  me  care  for  you  as  you  cared  for  him.  It  is  not 
right  that  you  should  spend  your  youth  in  waiting  on  the 
weakness  that  has,  and  should  have  no  claim  upon  you. 
Thank  God,  you  have  done  with  the  Jobson  delusion !  " 

But,  instead,  he  wrote,  not  on  impulse,  a  well-considered 
and  a  beautiful  letter,  truly.  Full  of  divinest  consolations. 
Yes,  so  she  received  those  words. 

Put  aside  his  own  Revelation  for  another,  and  said  :  "  To 
depart  is  far  better."  Soothed  her  with  the  testimony  to 
the  good  life  departed.  Prayed  that  they  might  have  the 
needed  grace  to  follow  on. 

So  it  had  really  come  to  pass  that  she  was  living  under 
the  Spread  Eagle's  wings. 

Yielding,  against  her  will,  to  the  solicitation  of  poor  Junior, 
she  came  to  take  care  of  the  miserable  crew — the  wretched 
wife  and  helpless  children.  Not  a  word  in  opposition  to,  or 


UNDER  THE  SPREAD    EAGLETS  WINGS. 

in  favor  of  this  movement,  had  escaped  Senior  Jobson.  He 
knew  that  she  did  not  come  voluntarily  ;  and  if  he  expected 
anything  in  his  own  behalf  from  the  change  in  her  resi- 
dence, the  expectation  was  so.  deeply  hidden  that  no  one 
could  have  guessed  it. 

When  Randy  paid  her  father's  debt  to  him — it  was  a  few 
days  after  she  had  come  to  take  care  of  the  blacksmith's 
wife — he  exhibited  more  feeling  than  he  had  allowed 
himself  to  manifest  even  to  himself  in  secret.  But  he  took 
the  money  and  put  it  in  his  pocket-book  when  she  said  that, 
of  course  he  would  not  refuse  to  do  what  her  father  had 
desired  of  him,  first  of  all.  When  she  thanked  him  for  the 
kindness  he  had  shown  her  father  and  herself,  he  made  as 
though  it  were  a  matter  so  trivial  it  was  almost  an  insult  to 
dwell  upon  it ;  but  he  could  not  hinder  the  speech  to  which 
she  would  give  utterance  unless  he  turned  away  and  left  her. 
And  that  he  did  not  do.  For  this  word  of  hers  arrested  any 
such  impulse  he  may  have  felt. 

"  You  ought  to  let  me  feel  as  if  you  were  friendly  to  me, 
Senior.  I  wouldn't  be  here  under  your  roof  if  it  wasn't  be- 
cause I  want,  more  than  anything,  to  make  you  all  comfort- 
able. That  is  the  reason  I  came.  And  it  will  keep  me  here 
as  long  as  I  can  be  of  service  to  poor  Junior  and  his  children. 
I  believe  that  it  is  going  to  be  a  house  of  death,  and  if  it  will 
be  a  comfort  to  her,  as  it  was  to  my  father,  to  lean  on  me  while 
she  goes  through  the  dark  valley,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  easy 
for  me  to  bear  it  all.  We  must  all  come  to  it  in  our  turn  ; 
how  could  I  hope  for  any  hand  to  make  my  own  way  easy  in 
this  world — and  it  is  the  hand  of  God  will  do  it  for  me,  and 
no  other,  I  expect — if  I  could  harden  myself  against  weak- 
ness and  pain,  and  the  helpless  little  children  ?  It  isn't  to 
be  expected  you  could  know  anything  about  sickness  and 
death — what  I've  undertook  to  do  isn't  easy,  Senior  ;  but  if  I 
could  see  that  you  was  feeling  kindly  toward  me,  I  would 
find  it  wasn't  harder  than  I  could  get  along  with." 

The  words,  spoken  with  something  less  than  her  usual 
directness,  with  many  pauses  even,  were  not  once  inter- 
rupted by  a  word  or  sign  from  Jobson.  But  when  she  had 
manifestly  come  to  an  end,  he  said  : 

"  There  isn't  anything  for  you  to  be  complaining  of.  I 
don't  mean  to  wrong  you — you're  free  to  come  and  go. 
I  told  Junior  you  wouldn't  come — but  it  seems  you  have. 


SCO  PETER    CARRADINE. 

That's  your  business,  and  not  mine.  It's  a  kinder  act,  I'll 
say,  than  I  expected  of  you.  But  the  devil  isn't  as  black  as 
he's  painted — and  may  be  your  getting  religion  hasn't  taken 
all  the  goodness  out  of  you  yet.  Being  more  of  you,  may  be, 
than  of  most,  it  would  take  longer." 

Some  people  rejoice  in  self-sacrifices  with  a  joy  not  at 
all  heroical.  There's  a  subtlety  in  the  selfishness  of  their 
satisfaction  by  which  it  eludes  condemnation,  and  usually 
gets  to  itself  praise — praise  that  even  the  most  discerning 
would  be  slow  to  express  in  a  dubious  manner. 

Such  rejoicing  as  Miranda  had  in  the  work  that  now  occu- 
pied her  was  not  after  this  kind.  To  come  down  from  the 
tender  embrace  of  Mercy  Carradine's  fine  sympathy,  from  the 
serenity  and  order  of  that  mansion  to  which,  after  the  funeral, 
she  had  gone  with  Peter's  wife,  to  this  coarse  manner  of 
life,  and  this  exacting  service  of  sickness  and  of  childhood, 
was  a  change  that  could  have  had  little  satisfaction  in  it. 

Mrs.  Carradine  said,  when  she  observed  Randy's  hes- 
itation, that,  in  justice  to  herself,  she  should  at  least  rest 
a  few  days  in  quiet.  That  she  was  not  physically  equal  to 
the  care  of  Jobson's  family.  Yes — yes — Junior  knew  it, 
but— 

The  need  of  her,  Randy  believed  was  really  not  so  desper- 
ate as  Junior  seemed  to  think.  Diligent  search  would  not 
fail  to  discover  some  person  as  competent,  and  more  practi- 
cable than  herself,  just  now.  She  did  need  rest — repose — 
and,  above  all  things,  the  daily  fostering  of  such  tender  love 
as  Mrs.  Carradine  had  it  in  her  heart  to  give  ;  such  as,  during 
the  past  winter,  had  found  a  frequent  evidence. 

But  there  are  persons  in  this  world,  ordained  counsellors 
and  comforters,  whose  need  to  receive  is  always  lost  sight  of 
by  reason  of  their  more  conspicuous  power  to  bestow. 
Their  strength,  it  would  seem,  does  never  fail ;  their  stout 
heart  does  never  faint  with  longing  ;  they  are  machines  war- 
ranted to  work  well,  and  run  on,  and  keep  time  eternally. 
No  one  thinks  to  look  searchingly  into  their  eyes  to  see  if, 
haply  a  tear  may  not  lurk  there  ;  neither  does  any  listen  to 
discern  among  their  voice's  tones  some  one  that  falters. 

Yet  this  was  not  Miranda's  case — thanks  alone  to  Mercy 
Carradine.  If  two  women  can  love  each  other  well — with 
intelligent  admiration,  with  conviction  that  something  is 
to  be  imparted,  something  to  be  derived,  valuable,  by  no 


UNDER  THE  SPREAD  EAGLE'S  WINGS.          361 

means  to  be  slighted  by  either — Mercy  and  Miranda  must 
be  taken  in  evidence. 

And  when  Mercy  said  to  Miranda  : 

"  You  must  come  and  stay  with  us  awhile — Peter  wishes 
it  as  much  as  I.  We  shall  do  each  other  good.  I  can  give 
you  some  of  my  strength — and  I  need  some  of  yours,"  Mi- 
randa's heart  opened  as  a  night-blooming  flower,  under  an 
influence  sweet  and  strange. 

But  while  she  hesitated  over  the  Jobson  petition,  it  sud- 
denly occurred  to  her  that  the  religion  she  professed  en- 
joined the  bearing  of  one  another's  burdens — and  that  she 
had  no  right  to  withhold  from  Senior  Jobson  any  service 
that  could  in  any  degree  illustrate  the  wonder  working 
power  of  her  faith.  He  at  least  would  \inderstand  why  she 
came  to  live  in  Junior's  family,  why  she  assumed  irksome 
cares  and  distracting  responsibilities — that  it  was  for  cha- 
rity's sake,  and  for  the  love  of  Christ. 

So  she  had  gone  down  to  the  tavern  and  taken  her  place 
there. 

It  was  a  presence  to  be  felt.  A  presence  that  assured 
and  controlled  ;  that  tranquillized  and  pacified  ;  that  brought 
order  into  the  midst  of  confusion.  A  presence  that  estab- 
lished peace  and  hope.  Miranda  would  never  fall  back;  dis- 
mayed, from  anything  she  undertook  with  resolution.  When 
she  consented  to  this  labor  of  pity,  she  did  it  in  a  spirit  too 
noble  to  oppress  Junior,  or  any  one  concerned,  with  a  sense 
of  obligation.  Quiet,  kindly  and  strong,  she  had  eyes  and 
ears  for  all  the  need  around  her,  and  within  the  weary  frame 
sat  the  uncomplaining  spirit,  peaceful  and  believing.  Glad, 
rejoicing,  shall  I  say  ?  Peaceful  and  believing !  Peaceful 
because  believing.  Believing  not  for  this  life  ;  and  the 
heart  that  has  resigned  its  expectance  of  personal  blessed- 
ness for  time,  and  looks  with  longing  to  the  life  beyond  the 
grave,  judge  ye  of  its  gladness  ! 

There  was  room  among  these  children  for  the  exercise  of 
tenderness  and  sympathy — in  her  path  some  simple  flowers 
bloomed — she  might  pluck  them  at  her  will ;  and  she  was 
not  ungrateful.  Admire  the  woman's  courage.  Be  pleased 
to  praise  her  goodness. 

But  she  could  not  help  herself,  you  say  ;  she  only  made 
the  best  of  circumstances  !  As  if  saint  or  angel,  or  subli- 
mest  seraphin,  ever  could  do  more ! 

16 


362  PETER   CARRADINE. 

Because  she  did  not  choose  selfishly,  did  not  turn  (to  nurse 
her  secret  sorrows)  from  the  calls  of  pain  and  feebleness, 
and  childhood — stooped  to  a  low  estate  with  a  Christiike 
abnegation,  said  to  God,  "  Do  as  thou  wilt,  I  choose  to  serve 
thee,  and  I  ask  no  wages,  only  according  to  thy  promise, 
show  me  what  thou  choosest  I  should  do  ;"  because  of  all 
this,  will  you  admire  and  praise  this  bravest  heart  in 
Martindale  ? 

Senior  Jobson  quietly  looked  on,  and  seemed  to  take  a 
kind  of  comfort  in  assuring  himself  that  the  devil  was  not 
as  black  as  he  was  painted  ;  for  in  this  way  he  personified 
Randy's  religious  faith.  No  one  need  point  out  to  him  the 
changes  for  the  better  in  the  house — for  in  reality  the  tavern 
and  the  blacksmith's  shop  were  one,  and  that  Junior's  wife 
was  a  victim  to  the  poison  of  the  bar-room  as  well  as  the  hard 
work  of  the  establishment,  nobody  in  Martindale  needed  to 
be  told.  He  could  see,  as  well  as  Junior,  the  changes — how 
evident  it  now  was  that  a  woman  who  could  control  and 
manage,  was  at  the  head  of  affairs !  Chidren  neat  and  or- 
derly ;  house  quiet  and  well-kept ;  food  abundant  and  pal- 
ateable  ;  system  and  skill  producing  their  conspicuous  re- 
sults. Miranda's  praise  was  in  everybody's  mouth. 

It  set  him  to  thinking.  The  exhibition,  in  spite  of  the  com- 
fort of  it,  was  secretly  a  source  of  great  discomfort  to  Senior. 
Miranda — no,  she  was  not  covetous — he  knew  better — it  was 
not  for  wages  that  she  was  working  thus.  She  said  it  was 
her  duty  that  made  demands  and  gave  her  satisfactions. 

Try  as  he  might,  Senior  could  not  persuade  himself  that 
he  understood  her.  So  he  launched  out  on  a  sea  of  possi- 
bilities with  a  cautious  daring,  that  seemed  in  no  danger  of 
stranding  on  a  perhaps. 


WALKING  AMONG  THE  TOMBS.  363 


CHAPTER  XLIL 


WALKING      AMONG      THE      TOMBS. 

Now  and  then  the  doors  of  Elder  Green's  house  opened  to 
receive  guests,  young  and  old,  who  came  on  various  pretexts, 
but  really  on  matrimonial  errands.  Young  men,  caught  by 
the  good  looks  of  the  the  Elder's  daughter,  or  her  fine 
dress;  and  older  men  who  had  regard  for  the  heiress.  One 
by  one,  they  all  dropped  out  of  sight,  and  the  neighborhood 
shook  its  head,  and  talked  of  the  crooked  stick  with  which 
she  might  be  compelled  to  content  herself  at  last.  But 
Sally  laughed,  and  said  that  bees  would  not  swarm  except 
where  there  was  a  chance  of  making  honey  ;  and,  for  her 
part,  she  preferred  to  amuse  herself,  rather  than  to  bind 
life  to  one  dull  round,  with  one  dull  man. 

Elder  Green  could  never  be  persuaded  to  talk  much  with 
these  lovers  on  the  subject  that  most  interested  them.  He 
seemed  wonderfully  indifferent — .took  it  for  granted  that 
Sally  must  know  her  own  mind  better  than  he  could  know  it 
for  her — and  never  gave  encouragement  to  any  anxious 
suitor.  But  how  many  times  he  sighed  in  secret,  thinking 
of  the  waste,  the  wreck,  she  had  made  of  her  life  !  And, 
though  she  had  given  her  word  in  reference  to  Oliver,  and 
he  had  told  her  he  should  rely  on  that,  and  had  never  re- 
ferred to  the  subject  again,  oftentimes  fears  tormented  him, 
and  long  did  his  fears  keep  him  alive  after  all  hopes  of  his 
recovery  was  over,  for  he  said  to  himself,  how  could  he  die 
and  leave  her  to  the  mercy  of  her  own  choice  and  the  fu- 
ture ? 

At  one  time  he  thought  seriously  of  taking  Mr.  Carradine 
into  his  confidence.  Assured  that,  while  he  lived,  Oliver 
would  be  certain  never  to  return,  he  dared  trust  to  no  future 


364  PETER   CARRADINE. 

time.  Fear  only,  he  believed,  would  keep  Oliver  from  Mar- 
tindale.  But  if  ever,  in  spite  of  what  had  past — if  ever,  in 
spite  of  all  her  words  and  assurances,  Sally  had  her  fortune 
in  her  own  hands  to  dispose  of,  who  could  stand  security  for 
her  even  a  single  day  ?  And  if — if,  indeed,  her  fate  was  ir- 
revokably  bound  up  with  that  of  Oliver  Savage,  what  could 
hinder  the  consummation  of  that  fate  when  he  was  gone  ?  She 
would  go  to  him  if  he  might  not  come  to  her. 

He  meant  to  talk  with  Sally  once,  before  it  should  be  too 
late — while  he  was  able  to  speak  freely  all  his  mind.  He 
would  save  her  by  extorting  from  her  promises  which  she 
could  not  but  deem  binding  when  he  was  gone — when  he  was 
dead  and  gone. 

But,  from  time  to  time,  he  deferred  the  favorable  hour, 
looking  for  a  moment  when  he  should  feel  stronger  to  speak 
to  his  dear  child  on  this  hateful  topic — a  moment  when  his 
cough  did  not  trouble  him  so  much.  Such  a  day  as  he  was 
looking  for  never  came.  Such  a  time  as  he  anticipated  never 
yet  came  to  a  mortal.  The  weakness  that  had  spared  her 
so  long,  could  not  nerve  him  now  to  stand,  in  his  dying  mo- 
ments, the  stern  opposer  of  what  she  might  deem  her  des- 
tiny !  Yet,  maybe,  after  all,  he  was  disquieting  himself  in 
vain  !  Perhaps  there  was  really  no  occasion  for  this  fear. 
Many  a  time  Huldah  had  assured  him  that  he  did  *a  right 
wise  thing  when  he  got  young  Savage  out  of  Martindale,  for 
it  was  clear  now,  if  it  had  never  been  before,  that  the  girl 
cared  nothing  for  the  foolish  fellow. 

But  even  Huldah  was  disturbed  in  her  mind  when  she 
saw  the  fate  of  Sally's  lovers,  who,  one  after  another,  went 
they  ways  discouraged  and  dejected — only  she  could  always 
aver  this  truth,  that  a  won:an  has  no  right  to  marry  a  man 
when  she  can't  give  him  her  heart.  She  could  never  get 
over  that  belief  of  her  young  maidenhood — her  own  experi- 
ence had  proved  to  her  that  there's  only  one  oracle  to  be 
heard  in  regard  to  these  matters. 

So  Elder  Green  died,  and  was  buried.  He  died  thanking 
God  for  all  his  mercies,  and  praying  Heavenly  forgiveness 
on  his  earthly  life.  He  died  not  in  an  extacy,  with  more 
pain  than  one  is  apt  to  deem  quite  suitable  for  a  man  of  his 
virtues — he  died  with  a  mind  more  darkly  overcast  with 
doubt,  more  troubled,  than  those  who  knew  his  blameless 
life  could  well  account  for.  He  had  reaped  many  thorns  in 


WALKING    AMONG    THE    TOMBS.  865 

his  last  harvestings — he  could  not  look  on  the  pure  grain — 
thistles  were  too  many — and  he  said  : 

"  The  blue  sky  seems  to  be  covered  with  white  clouds, 
made  of  thistle-seeds.  Oh,  what  a  crop  there'll  be  ! — 
for  the  wind  blows  where  it  listeth,  and  carries  the  seed  with 
it!" 

They  remembered  this  with  a  sad  smile,  for  the  Elder's 
mind  was  wandering  in  his  last  days  ;  and  even  in  that  state 
they  would  fain  have  had  its  delusions  all  peaceful  and 
bright.  But  he  was  a  mortal  man,  and  passing  through  the 
valley  of  shadows — soon  he  should  see  clearer,  and  God 
himself  would  wipe  all  tears  from  his  eyes. 

Alas,  poor  man,  a  little  care,  a  little  less  fondness,  a  lit- 
tle less  free  indulgence,  and  you  would  have  been  spared 
this  vision  of  the  thistle  crop  !  No  wonder  it  perplexed 
your  last  hours  to  know  how  all  those  seed,  light  as  air, 
light  as  vanity,  could  be  gathered  in  and  hindered  from 
baneful  growth  next  year  !  The  little  one  was  not  an  angel 
when  she  came  to  you,  it  was  yours  to  make  one  of  her ! 
Oh,  what  have  you  done  ?  Prayed  for  her  ;  worked  for  her  ; 
saved  your  money  for  her ;  had  her  taught  in  Scripture  and 
catechism  ;  sent  her  to  boarding-school,  and  paid  away  so 
much  money,  and  never  got  the  secret  of  her  life,  nor  con- 
trolled, as  a  parent  may,  the  workings  of  her  heart !  That 
prison  unvisited  !  that  nakedness  unclothed  !  that  hunger 
unfed  !  that  thirst  unappeased !  Nay,  thou  doest  well  to 
call  on  the  mere  mercy  of  God,  when  those  standing  round 
thy  death-bed  wonder  that  that  dost  not  rather  appeal,  as  to 
thy  judge,  thou  holy  man,  to  attest  to  thy  life's  integrity  ; 
"  My  record  is  on  high  !" 

So  he  has  gone  out  of  this  world — so  the  sod  covers  him. 
But  shall  I  say  that  all  his  work,  the  sum  of  it,  was  to  plant 
an  upas  tree  !  Nay,  friends,  let  us  be  still — let  us  lay  our 
mouths  in  the  dust — it  breaks  the  heart  to  think  and  to  be- 
hold. 

Yet,  let  us  think  !  let  us  behold  !  and  let  us  look  for 
judgments  until  we  learn  to  live.  Let  us  expect  to  see 
honorable  names  all  covered  with  shame — honorable  records 
blurred  and  blotted  with  disgrace — darkness  and  the  shadow 
of  death,  where  should  be  light,  and  life,  and  gladness. 
Cursing  where  there  might  be  benediction  !  hate  instead  of 
love  !  treachery  in  place  of  steadfastness  !  lying  instead  of 


366  PETER   CARRADINE. 

truth  !  For  the  children  are  what  their  parents  doom  them 
to  be — feeble,  or  idle,  or  false  ;  selfish,  tyrannous,  base. 
Nothing  grows  in  all  God's  world  but  the  very  thing  that  is 
planted.  And  there  is  nowhere  a  chance.  Precisely 
what  we  choose  for  our  children,  are  they  predestined  to 
be. 

And  it  was  nothing  strange,  incredible,  or  even  mon- 
strously out  of  order,  but  in  the  true  order  of  this  entire 
disorder,  that  from  time  to  time  Oliver  Savage,  in  Aus- 
tralia, read  the  messages  Sally  sent  across  the  ocean  through 
his  sisters.  Nothing  incredible  that  a  ghostly  hand  could 
not  hinder  the  lines  she  sometimes  even  penned  to  meet  his 
eyes  ! 

But  when  he  answered  the  letter  that  told  him  of  the 
death  of  Elder  Green,  and  spoke  of  the  evil  effect  he  experi- 
enced from  the  climate,  and  that  he  had  succeeded  beyond 
his  expectation,  and  longed  to  come  home,  thought  it  his 
duty  to  come,  for  it  seemed  to  him  every  one  in  Martindale 
was  dying,  and  he  must  see  his  mother  and  his  sisters — Sally 
trembled. 

She  read  a  meaning  of  these  words  which  even  the  fami- 
ly that  rejoiced  over  them,  believing  that  this  was  the  true 
note  sounding  his  return,  could  not  read,  and  she  dared 
not  encourage  that  return.  And  when  some  sign  was  ex- 
pected of  her,  as  if  she  at  least  would  share  their  joy,  she 
gave  no  sign.  She  dared  not  rejoice  ;  and  from  the  day  of 
this  reading  she  avoided  Oliver's  family.  She  said  to  her- 
self she  would  be  innocent  of  any  connivance  !  If  he  re- 
turned it  should  not  be  on  account  of  her  encourage- 
ment ! . 

Was  she,  then,  wholly  influenced  by  the  suspicion  and 
the  fear,  lest  her  secret  was  not  in  her  hands  alone  ?  By 
the  doubt  whether  there  might  not  be,  here  in  Martindale, 
some  guardian,  unguessed,  who  would  be  quick  to  frustrate 
any  plan  that  might  be  made  for  Oliver's  return  ?  On  the 
last  day  of  his  life,  her  father  had  made  many  fruitless  ef- 
forts to  speak  last  words  to  her  and  others — death  hindered 
him  from  speaking.  He  died  without  a  sign.  But  before 
this  time,  what  might  he  not  have  said,  to  whom  might  he 
not  have  confided  ?  She  was  fearful,  because  doubting. 
And  then  lier  sense  of  duty  also  hindered  her.  For  of  course 
she  had  not  all  along  sustained  the  exile's  hopes  !  Of  course 


WALKING    AMONG    THE    TOMBS.  367 

she  had  not  cherished  expectations  for  herself  that  were 
dearer,  because  secret  and  forbidden  ! 

Esther  Green  had  now  retired  into  the  dotage  of  her 
grief,  for  she  had  outlived  her  idol  ;  had  stayed  on  earth  to 
see  her  son  go  down  to  death  ;  had  lived  too  long.  So  she 
shut  herself  up  in  the  house.  The  outside  world  had  never 
given  her  much  ;  it  now  could  give  her  nothing.  For  years 
she  had  lived  through  the  Elder  ;  ho  had  been  her  pride 
through  life  ;  and  now  that  he  was  dead,  there  was  nothing 
more  of  summer  or  of  winter,  of  seed-time  or  of  harvest, 
that  she  could  desire. 

Huldah,  on  whom  the  conduct  of  the  farm  devolved — for 
the  Elder,  with  an  honorable  trust,  had  confided  that  man- 
agement to  her — strove  in  vain  to  interest  the  old  body  in 
her  plans  and  doings.  Work,  by  which  she  kept  her  mind 
and  body  well,  work — active  sympathy,  if  any  like  the  ex- 
pression better — the  resource  of  Huldah,  the  widow,  had  no 
isterest,  could  no  longer  absorb  poor  Esther.  She  sat  by 
the  fire  in  winter,  and  in  her  own  bedroom  in  summer,  and 
her  knitting  work  and  Bible  occupied  her  time.  So  she 
seemed  to  dry  away  in  the  weariest  and  saddest  manner  of 
departure  mortal  body  could  devise. 

Sally  did  not  fail  in  duty  to  her.  Between  her  and  her 
mother,  seven  walls  with  double-locked  gates  could  not  have 
effected  completer  separation  than  was  accomplished  by  the 
workings  of  the  two  distinct  antagonistic  natures.  She  is 
the  Elder's  daughter,  Huldah  was  forever  reminding  her- 
self;  and  she  could  never  have  lived  through  a  day  in  peace 
without  that  reminder.  For  it  was  rare  that  Sally  said  to 
herself  with  anything  like  self-rebuke — she  is  my  father's 
widow  ;  she  has  been  a  faithful  wife  to  him  and  a  servant  to 
us  all. 

But  towards  old  Esther  Sally  did  exhibit,  day  by  day, 
such  womanly  tenderness  and  consideration  as  she  had  to 
bestow.  And  if  Esther  could  do  nothing  more  for  her,  she 
could  nourish  the  family  pride  that  was  having  in  the 
daughter  of  the  house  a  demonstration  so  unlocked  for. 
King  Cophetua  may  wed  where  it  pleases  him  ! 

Sally's  devotion  to  her  grandmother  was  that  of  the 
ascetic,  whose  one  virtue  shall  cover  a  multitude  of  sins. 
Of  Annanias  and  Sapphira,  those  base  speculators  who 
brought  their  offering  and  risked  it  on  a  venture.  Wall 


368  PETER  CARRADINE. 

street  never  saw  a  more  disastrous  operation.  The  chances 
were  not  against  Sally — but  there  was  scant  virtue  in  her 
sacrifices  to  age  and  infirmity,  irrascible  and  exciting  though 
it  might  be.  Old  Esther  had  the  advantage  of  those  com- 
punctions with  which  Sally  remembered  wherein  she  had 
failed  of  duty  to  her  father  ;  but  the  service,  in  itself  consid- 
ered, was  void  of  virtue  as  the  unfortunate  pair  alluded  to 
above. 

Sally  and  Miranda  saw  very  little  of  each  other  in  these 
days.  Randy's  duties  kept  her  busy,  mind  and  body,  in  a 
healthful  activity ;  and  the  prospect  of  retiring  from  her 
post  was  not  a  near  one.  The  great  peril  in  which  Junior's 
wife  had  lain  through  many  a  month,  passed  finally,  but  the 
need  of  the  skill  and  diligence  which  had  made  so  new  and 
strange  a  place  of  the  Jobson  home,  public  as  well  as  pri- 
vate, seemed  to  be  greater  than  ever  now,  when  the  wife's 
recovery  had  opened  the  way  for  Randy's  departure. 

Junior's  wife,  a  weak  and  feeble  woman  in  her  best 
estate,  full  of  dismal  forebodings,  saw  all  things  falling 
back  into  the  state  of  ruin  from  which  Miranda,  at  the  cost 
of  so  much  time  and  such  hard  service,  had  recovered 
them.  It  was  her  prophesying,  which  Randy  dared  not 
gainsay  ;  it  all  seemed  too  probable  ;  that  detained  her  in 
the  blacksmith's  house  when  the  cause  that  brought  her 
there  seemed  urgent  no  longer.  This,  still  more  than  the 
fondness  of  the  little  children  for  her  ;  this,  still  more  than 
Junior's  gratitude  ;  this,  still  more  than  Senior  Jobson's 
praise,  uttered  by  him  without  constraint  or  ceremony,  as  if 
merely  her  due,  of  which  he  was  the  last  man  to  defraud 
her. 

For,  though  she  might  go  from  Martindale,  and  possibly 
find  a  home  for  herself  where  no  old  ties  should  disturb  the 
service  she  designed  to  render  Heaven  ;  though  elsewhere 
she  might  find  some  missionary  work  to  engage  in  that 
would  occupy  her  day  by  day,  as  her  work  did  here,  with 
the  advantage  that  no  one  then  could  mistake  her  purpose  ; 
and  her  heart  might  act  with  a  freedom  which  seemed  im- 
possible here  ;  though  this  might  be  done,  still,  here  was 
this  house  and  family  ;  children  growing  up  who  needed  more 
than  their  mother's  care  and  government ;  and  an  Eagle 
somewhat  wild  yet.  Just  now  it  might  be  well — the  end 
of  her  reflections  on  the  matter  kept  her  where  she  was. 


WALKING    AMONG    THE    TOMBS.  369 

The  last  time  that  Sally  and  Miranda  discussed  Mr.  Colla- 
mer,  they  came  to  an  understanding  of  each  other  that  seemed 
to  be  quite  new.  It  happened  thus  : 

Miranda  was  walking  toward  the  grave-yard  one  bright, 
still  Sunday  afternoon,  attended,  as  it  chanced,  by  only  one 
of  Jobson's  children,  the  youngest,  a  little  girl,  two  years 
old.  And  the  child  had  tired  of  the  long  walk,  for  the 
grave-yard  of  Martindale  was  nearly  a  mile  from  the  tav- 
ern—it lay  upon  the  hill-side,  a  bright  spot  of  verdure, 
lovely  in  this  season,  for  the  fragrance  of  the  thousands  of 
sweetbrier  roses  in  blossom,  but  for  nought  beside.  When 
the  little  one  began  to  complain  of  the  long  way,  and  was 
not  to  be  pacified  or  allured  over  the  rough  road  any  longer, 
but  stood  still  and  cried,  Randy  took  her  up  in  her  arms 
and  carried  her,  for  she  longed  to  go  and  sit  by  her  father's 
grave,  and  think  in  silence  on  him  and  the  heaven  where, 
to-day,  he  was  rejoicing  in  the  glory  of  his  youth. 

But  the  silence  and  the  exaltation  were  not  for  her  in 
this  place  ;  for  as  she  went  up  the  hill,  toiling  along  slowly, 
for  the  day  was  warm,  and  "  the  baby  "  lay  a  dead  weight 
on  her  shoulder,  having  now  fallen  asleep,  Randy  met  Sally 
Green,  who  had  walked  past  the  grave-yard,  and  was  now 
returning  without  having  entered,  though  when  she  set  out 
from  home  she  had  said  she  would  go  and  see  if  the  willow 
tree  they  planted  prospered  yet. 

"  Are  you  going  in  ?"  she  asked  of  Randy.  "  "What  a 
heat  you're  in  !  Do  put  down  that  child." 

"  She  was  so  tired,"  said  Randy,  wiping  her  face,  "  and 
now  she's  asleep.  Yes ;  I'm  going  in.  Come  with  me, 
will  you  ?" 

And  so  they  walked  together  up  the  grassy  path,  and 
Sally  was  glad  of  this  company  ;  now  the  place  was  not  so 
gloomy  ;  she  felt  more  assured  ;  the  hopping  and  singing  of 
the  birds,  and  the  breeze  coming  through  the  pines  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill  would  not  startle  her,  as  these  slight  sounds 
had  done. 

Randy  was  the  first  to  speak  as  they  walked  among  the 
graves.  The  dead  were  all  around  her  ;  a  greater  number 
of  her  friends  had  their  names  written  here  than  could  be 
foimd  now  upon  living  records.  Reverence  and  tenderness 
filled  her  speech  with  their  spirit ;  but  her  gravity  was  not 
that  of  hopeless  grief ;  it  was  the  still  composure  of  one 

16* 


370  PETER    CARRADINE. 

whose  hoping  beheld  fruition  afar  off.  "  I  shall  be  with  you 
soon,"  she  looked  and  said,  in  a  speech  that  had  no  words 
for  Sally  ear. 

"  I'm  a  pilgrim  and  I'm  a  stranger, 
I  can  tarry,  I  can  tarry  but  a  night ! " 

It  was  the  conviction  that  took  the  sting  from  her  sor- 
row and  filled  her  soul  with  serenest  anticipation 

"  It's  the  first  time  we  have  walked  here  together  since," 
she  said.  "  But  we  used  to  come  very  often.  It  was  be- 
fore we  had  lost  any  friends  that  we  hunted  strawberries  on 
this  hill !  For  your  own  mother  died  even  before  I  can  re- 
collect, and  you  were  only  a  baby." 

"  If  she  had  only  died  before  I  was  born — or  if  I  had 
died  with  her,"  said  Sally,  "  what  trouble  would  have  been 
got  rid  of !" 

"  It  does  all  seem  so  strange,"  answered  Randy.  "  Both 
gone.  If  it  wasn't  easier  to  bear  pain  than  to  cause  it,  one 
might  wish  we  had  gone  first,  instead  of  living  on  and  los- 
ing all.  But  your  father  was  so  fond  of  you  !  And  you 
were  such  a  comfort  to  him— rand  to  the  old  lady  too  ! — it 
ought  to  make  the  sorrow  easier  to  bear,  as  mine  is  light- 
ened too  when  I  remember." 

Sally  did  not  reply  ;  but  a  glance  of  sharp  questioning 
flashed  from  her  eyes.  No — how  could  she  have  suspected 
that  Randy  was  conscious  of  the  recollections,  bitter  and  ac- 
cusing, which  this  manner  of  consolation  would  revive  ? 

The  graves  of  the  old  neighbors  were  directly  opposite 
each  other — they  lay  on  either  side  of  the  narrow  path — 
friends  in  life,  in  death  not  far  divided. 

"  Do  you  think  that,  when  it  is  all  over,  we  shall  sleep 
so  nigh  each  other  ?  So  near,  it  seems  impossible  they 
should  not  know  it  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Sally,  "  it  isn't  likely.  You  will  not  always 
be  living  in  Martindale  ;  neither  shall  I,  I  hope.  And  so  it 
seems  to  me.  "What  difference  does  it  make  where  one's 
buried,  if  he's  only  well  done  with  this  life  ?  That's  the 
main  thing.  But  it  isn't  living  to  stay  here  in  Martin- 
dale." 

"  But  I  hope,"  said  Randy,  who,  contrary  to  Sally's  ex- 
pectation, did  not  answer  these  words  with  reproof,  though 
it  was  evident  they  pained  her.  She  began  to  speak  now 


WALKING    AMONG    THE    TOMBS.  371 

in  a  way  that  commanded  Sally's  attention,  and  by  her 
speech  seemed,  for  the  time  at  least,  to  control  the  unquiet 
spirit  of  the  girl,  who,  from  much  thinking  of  herself,  began 
to  question,  as  she  looked  at  her  old  friend,  "  What  has 
happened  to  Randy  ?  How  quiet  she  looks.  How  very 
handsome  she  is  \" 

"  I  hope,"  said  Randy,  sitting  down  by  her  father's  grave, 
with  the  sleeping  child  still  in  her  arms,  '•'  I  hope  at  the 
last  that  I  shall  lie  just  here,  close  by  my  father's  side — 
there's  room  now.  But  the  grave-yard  fills  very  fast.  •  I 
wouldn't  wish  to  be  far  away  from  him,  even  in  death — 
though  I  know  that,  when  all  is  over,  I  shall  see  him  again. 
He  is  lying  in  Abraham's  bosom.  Oh,  Sally,  if  there  should 
be  a  gulf  between  us  !  Blessed  Savior  !  keep  us  safe  and 
bring  us  to  our  dear  ones  !  I  have  so  many  things  I  long 
to  say  to  him — so  much  I've  thought  of  since  he  went  away, 
I  want  to  be  forgiven  for — and  I  know  a  word  would  set  all 
right.  But  then  I  know  all  is  right  when  I  remember  his 
last  words,  and  the  great  peace  of  those  last  hours  we  spent 
together.  It  seemed  to  me,  when  he  was  dead,  I  could  on- 
ly thank  God  for  it,  he  suffered  so  much,  And  I  had  no 
tears  for  my  loss  as  long  as  I  could  think  of  the  happiness 
of  his  release,  for  his  work  is  all  done,  and  his  debts  are  all 
paid,  and  his  rheumatism  is  all  over.  When  I  thought,  as 
I  sat  alone  in  the  house  afterward,  of  how  he  was  himself 
in  the  presence  of  Jesus,  whom  ho  loved  so  dearly,  I  could 
n't  but  be  glad.  But  the  sight  of  him  was  precious,  and  my 
time  came  for  grief  when  I  felt  I  should  see  him  no  more. 
It  returns  upon  me  often — when  I  expect  it  least  some- 
times. I  used  to  strive  against  it.  But  now  I  think  bet- 
ter. Why  should  I  wish  to  forget  that  I  have  met  with  a 
great  loss,  and  that  I  am  alone  on  this  earth  ?  That  is  the 
road  by  which  I  always  come  to  see  that  I  must  be  the  bet- 
ter help  to  others  who  need  help  ;  for  there's  nothing  to 
hinder  me  giving  my  time  and  my  strength.  And  it's  sor- 
row that  humbles  us  best,  and  makes  us  gentler  and  kinder, 
and  more  earnest  in  doing  with  our  might  what  we 
can." 

"  There's  nothing  to  hope  for  or  live  for,"  said  Sally. 
"  You  make  it  out  all  misery,  and  I  don't  know  but  it  is.  Is 
that  all  you're  in  the  world  for  ?  To  be  made  wretched,  so 


372  PETER   CARRADINE. 

you  shall  come  to  be  a  help  to  other  wretched  folks  ?  It's  a 
queer  world — I'm  tired  of  it !" 

"  There's  nothing  but  God  to  live  for — God  ig  love,"  an- 
swered Randy  ;  and  Sally  might  have  searched  the  words  in 
vain  to  find  reproach  in  them — there  was  no  reproach,  but 
there  seemed  to  be  some  anxiety  ;  fain  would  she  have 
Sally  to  know  the  deep  peace  that  had  come  to  her  by  sub- 
mission. 

"  To  please  Him,  Sally,  think  of  that !"  said  she,  with  a 
brightening  face.  "  Why  what  is  everything  beside  !  If 
we  have  only  the  great  trust  for  that  !  To  please  Him  !  not 
to  be  with  those  who  despised  and  rejected  Him,  and  made 
Him  acquainted  with  grief.  Oh,  to  give  the  Savior  some 
joy  !  not  to  make  him  sorrow  over  us !  It  takes  the  bitter- 
ness from  sorrow,  believe  me,  for  I  know  it ;  only  to  look 
up  and  see  Him  standing  there,  watchful  and  guarding,  able 
and  willing  to  save  !" 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  at  Junior  Jobson's  the  rest  of 
your  life,  Randy  ?"  asked  Sally,  abruptly,  after  a  silence 
which  Randy  had  thought  would  bring  forth  something  very 
different. 

"  I  don't  say  anything  to  myself  about  that,"  she  an- 
swered. "  Junior  and  his  wife  like  to  have  me  there — and 
the  children  like  me,  and  I  am  fond  of  them.  •  So,  just  now, 
I  am  staying  on." 

"  Why  don't  you  marry  Senior,  and  make  a  Christian  of 
him  ?"  asked  Sally,  at  a  venture.  She  had  heard  some  idle 
speculations  on  this  point,  but  she  merely  asked  the  question 
to  make  sure  of  changing  the  course  of  Randy's  medita- 
tion. 

"  It  would  be  to  no  good  purpose." 

"  But  you  are  so  anxious  to  be  used  by  other  people,  why 
not  ?  There's  a  chance  for  a  missionary  !  Convert  Senior, 
and  you  might  afford  to  fold  your  hands  the  rest  of  your 
days.  I  think  I  see  it  done.  But  you  are  ambitious,  Ran- 
dy, and  you  can't  deny  it — I  wonder  you  don't  undertake 
it." 

"  You're  joking,  Sally — don't  do  it.  I  never  shall  forget 
to  pray  for  a  change  in  Senior  Jobson,  but  I  have  no  right 
to  trust  myself  to  a  kind  of  life  that  has  been  too  much  for 
one  poor  woman.  It's  ruined  Junior's  wife." 

•"  Junior's  wife  is  a  drunkard  out  and  out,  and  every  body 


WALKING    AMONG    THE    TOMBS.  3*73 

knows  it.  Don't  compare  yourself  with  that  woman.  I  wish 
you  were  out  of  Martindale,  safe  and  sound.  It's  a  dead 
waste  for  you  to  be  living  here.  Where's  Mr.  Collamer  in 
these  days  ?  I  wish  he  would  come  and  carry  you  off.  You 
ought  to  marry  him.  He  was  made  for  you.  I'll  own  it 
now,  but  I  wouldn't  once." 

"  He  is  good  as  married  already,"  answered  Randy, 
stooping  over  the  child  to  screen  her  from  the  sun,  it  seem- 
ed. "  I  could  have  told  you  of  that  long  ago.  To  a  very 
beautiful  woman.  I  have  seen  her  likeness — prettier  than 
Mrs.  Carradine." 

"  Mrs.  Carradine  !     She  is  a  beauty,  to  be  sure  !" 

"  I  think  so.  But  not  like  Miss  Grey.  It  seemed  to  me 
when  I  saw  her  face,  as  if  it  couldn't  be  that  there  ever  was 
such  a  one.  But  may  be  you  have  seen  such.  I  haven't 
seen  much  of  what's  in  the  world,  to  be  sure." 

"  Randy,  you  ain't  what  I  thought  you  was  !"  said  Sally, 
thoughtfully.  "  I'd  like  to  know  how  you  took  it  when  you 
knew  he  was  going  to  marry  her." 

"  I  wish  him  a  happy  life.  May  she  be  as  good  as  she  is 
beautiful.  God  bless  them  both." 

Sally  looked  at  her  old  friend  and  did  not  answer.  Pres- 
ently the  silence  became  oppressive,  and  she  rose  up  from 
the  grassy  mound. 

"  Come,  let  us  go,"  said  she,  and  Randy  followed  her. 
She  followed  with  a  hope  ;  she  hoped  that,  if  Sally  had  any 
secret  trouble  on  her  mind,  as  it  seemed  she  must  have, 
they  might  come  na^ir  to  each  other ;  and  that  this  trouble, 
or  this  burden,  might  be  eased  by  sharing.  And  Randy 
was  saying  to  herself  that,  if  Sally  should  ever  confide  in 
her,  she  would  give  her  true  advice,  and  help  her,  as  be- 
came a  woman  and  friend.  As  they  walked  along  the  road 
together,  she  said  : 

"  You  are  not  really  thinking  of  going  away  from  Martin- 
dale  ?" 

"  "What  ever  put  that  into  your  head  ?"  asked  Sally. 

"  You  said  something  about  it,  as  if  you  thought  we 
shouldn't,  either  of  us,  be  living  here  always." 

"  But  I  think  you  will,  now  !  I've  changed  my  mind.  I 
think,  now,  you'll  marry  Senior.  After  a  while  you'll  be 
quite  famous  for  a  landlady.  I  see  it  all.  I  can  prophesy 
as  well  as  another.  You  weren't  meant  to  settle  down  in 


374  PETER   CAURADINE. 

any  quiet  way,  like  common  people.  That's  the  reason  I 
thought  you  would  marry  Mr.  Collamer.  As  for  me,  I  don't 
expect  to  live  here  all  my  days.  Mother  Green  and  I  could 
live,  if  it  was  out  of  each  other's  sight,  I  reckon." 

"  There's  few  like  Huldab  Green,''  said  Randy. 

"  I  hope  so.  Suspicious  and  prying,  and  looking  after 
me  as  if  I  couldn't  be  trusted  out  of  sight." 

"  That's  for  your  father.'' 

"No  it  isn't.  Did  he  ever  watch  me  so  ?  He — trusted 
me  !  He  knew  I  could  take  care  of  myself." 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  it  different.  It  seems  to  me  I  can 
understand  how  Huldah  feels — don't  laugh — but  it  has 
seemed  to  me,  lately,  as  if  I  could  tell  how  everybody  feels  ; 
as  if  I'd  a  key  that  opened  all  their  hearts.  She  loves  you, 
and  she's  anxious  for  you,  more  than  if  you  was  her  own 
born  child,  just  as  I  feel  about  Junior  Jobson's  children." 

"Yon  think  I'm  as  unfit  to  take  care  of  myself  as  Ju- 
nior's wretched  wife  is  to  take  care  of  her  housefull !"  ex- 
claimed Sally,  half  angry,  yet  laughing.  "  Thank  you  !  I'm 
in  no  danger  of  taking  to  drink  and  letting  my  responsibili- 
ties run  wild  like  savages,  as  those  children  were  doing 
when  you  went  to  the  tavern." 

"  You  don't  understand — you  can't  see  it !  How  xshe 
came  to  do  it — worked  to  death,  and  sick,  and  getting  a  lit- 
tle dreadful  strength  out  of  drink,  to  keep  her  up  and  help 
her  on.  But  she's  a  cored  woman,  Sally  !  She's  a  cured 
woman,  and  it  seems  to  me  we  shouldn't  be  harder  on  her 
than  her  husband  is.  Even  Senior  Jobsou  is  as  kind  to  her, 
and  always  was,  as  if  she  was  a  daughter  to  him.  And  it 
was  a  good  deal  for  him.  Tavern-keepers  don't  like  to  have 
that  sort  of  person  about  after  they've  sold  their  liquor  . 
but  they've  tried  to  keep  her  up  and  about,  them  two  broth- 
ers, as  she  tells  me,  and  never  give  her  a  word  of  blame 
when  things  were  at  their  worst — Senior  never  did." 

«'  He  didn't  care,  I  suppose,"  said  Sally. 

"  It  isn't  one  of  the  kind  o'  things  he'd  be  indifferent 
about.  He  cares — and  he  did  care,  but  he  pitied  her  ;  and 
it's  brought  him  to  the  point,  more  than  once,  of  shutting  up 
the  house  and  going  off." 

"  Why  don't  he  keep  a  temp'rance,  then  ?"  asked  Sally. 
"  Pity  he  hadn't  long  ago  !"  Then,  as  Randy  did  not  at 
once  reply,  she  went  on.  "  You  think  you  know  how  Hul- 


WALKING    AMONG    THE    TOMBS.  375 

dah  feels.  I  think  you  don't.  She's  afraid  now,  Randy, 
that  I  am  going  to  be  inveigled  off  somehow,  and  some 
worthless  fellow  is  to  run  through  father's  property.  She's 
dreadfully  anxious  to  marry  me  to  some  good  man,  that 
would  look  after  me  as  my  father  would  !  That's  exactly 
what  she  said  when  we  got  into  a  talk  the  other  day.  Now 
did  you  ever  hear  of  a  girl  wanting  to  marry  a  man  like  her 
father  !" 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Sally." 

"  I'm  not  joking.  I  shall  not  marry  an  old  man  or  a  rich 
man.  But  I'll  marry  for  love,  if  ever.  But  I  never  shall 
marry  at  all." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  swift,  nor  indeed  more 
keen,  than  the  glance  with  which  Sally  now  endeavored  to 
possess  herself  of  Randy's  secret  thought.  Said  Randy  : 

"  You  may  change  your  mind  ;  nobody  can  tell.  But  oh, 
I  trust  you  may  have  a  light  to  your  feet  when  you  do  walk 
that  way,  Sally,  because — " 

"  Why  then  ?  I  suppose  you  see  a  special  need  of  it,  as 
well  as  Huldah!" 

"  Because  you're  a  woman  that — that — I'm  afraid  to 
say  it  !" 

"  Don't  then.     Yes,  say  it ;  a  woman — what  else  ?" 

For  yet  a  moment  longer  Randy  hesitated  ere  she  said, 

"  A  woman  that  will  be  just  what  her  husband  is." 

"  There  you're  wrong/' 

"  There  isn't  blame  in  it.  It  should  be  so.  It  ought  to 
be,  it  would  be — " 

"  No,  I  should—" 

"  Direct  him  1  Make  him  what  you  knew  he  should  be  ? 
No,  you  would  not ;  you  would  not  do  that.  You  would  love 
him  as  he  was,  and  come  to  see  no  sin  in  his  sinfulness,  and 
go  down  instead  of  up  ;  and  all  for  love.  And  so — oh,  I 
hope,  how  I  hope  !  it  might  be  some  strong,  good  man,  like 
some  we  have  known.  I  wish  it  might  be  the  best  man  I 
have  ever  known." 

"  You  think  I  would  be  led,  and  not  lead." 

"  I  think  you  would  believe  that  you  led  him,  for  that's 
your  nature,  Sally.  Yes  !  but  I  think  you  would  really  be 
influenced  by  him  most.  Yes,  that's  what  I  think  about  it. 
And  so,  I'm  anxious.  For  that  reason  I  used  to  be  afraid 
it  might  be  Oliver  Savage  you  would  set  your  heart  on. 


376  PETER   CARRADINE. 

And  I  never  thanked  God  so  heartily  for  anything  as  I  did 
for  his  going  away.  It  would  have  been  such  a  dreadful 
marriage  for  you,  Sally." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Randy.  And  she  spoke  with  power,  as  one 
who  has  gained  time  and  opportunity  for  speech  of  inestim- 
able importance  ;  and  thus  she  went  on.  "  If  you  had  mar- 
ried him,  he  would  have  shown  you  how  you  deceived  your- 
self, trusting  him,  and  then  nothing  but  wretchedness  all 
your  life  ;  or  else,  or  else  he  would  have  persuaded  you 
against  your  own  knowledge,  and  you  would  have  preferred 
him  to  all  the  world." 

"  And  what  if  I  had  ?"  . 

"  Then  you  would  have  gone  down  instead  of  up,  as  I 
said  before." 

"  Of  course  you're  thinking  I'd  choose  the  worst  of  any 
two  things  that  offered." 

"  We're  not  ourselves  entirely,  Sally,  when  we  love  ano- 
ther. Remember  your  dear  father.  Don't  think  that  you 
can  go  against  his  will  and  prosper." 

Struggling  against  the  suspicion  and  alarm  Miranda's 
words  excited,  Sally  answered,  indignant, 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  has  set  you  into  this  way 
of  talking  ?  Do  you  wonder  that  a  woman,  free  to  go  where 
she  chooses,  should  think  sometimes  of  flying  away,  out  of 
reach  of  such  preachers  as  you  and  Huldah  Green  T' 

"  Oh,  Sally,  it  might  be  going  beyond  your  friends'  reach. 
It  is  only  a  friend  who  would  dare  to  pain  you  so." 

More  quietly,  but  not  with  less  displeasure  than  her  for- 
mer speech  had  testified,  Sally  answered, 

"  I  have  been  looking  over  the  map  of  the  world,  and  I 
can  find  Butler  county,  but  no  Martindale.  Count  the  peo- 
ple worth  your  knowing  ;  two  dozen  may  be.  It's  stuff  you 
talk  ;  contentment  here  is  a  sin.  I'll  not  stay  here  forever. 
And  I  am  not  afraid  that  I  cannot  find  friends  wherever  I 
go.  I  could  at  school — plenty  of  them.  I  don't  like  this 
being  lectured.  I  wish  you  hadn't  such  a  sense  of  duty.  I 
wish  we  could  take  a  journey  together.  I  wish  we  could  do 
something  that  conscience  hadn't  got  a  single  word  to  say 
about.  If  I  hear  too  little  to  it,  you  hear  a  deal  too  much. 
When  I  marry  Oliver  Savage,  you  shall  be  my  bridesmaid. 
Don't  look  so  solemn.  His  mother  likes  me  better  than 


WALKING    AMONG    THE    TOMBS.  377 

Huldah  ever  did.  I'd  like  to  be  loved  a  little.  And  the 
girls — aren't  they  pretty  girls  ? — they  don't  care  more  for 
each  other  than  they  do  for  me.  You  might  think  I  was 
their  sister^ !  They  show  me  all  their  dear  boy's  letters 
home.  When  he  sent  back  a  lock  of  hair  they  wanted  to 
share  it." 

"  Sally,  don't  talk  so.  It  seems  to  me  I  see  you  standing 
on  the  edge — " 

"  Oh,  yes,  that's  true  preaching  style — on  the  edge  of  a 
precipice.  Make  the  most  of  me,  Handy — I  may  go  over 
before  you  know." 

Some  strange  pleasure  she  seemed  to  find  in  drawing  from 
Randy  these  expressions  of  anxiety.  She  was  only  testing 
her — only  probing  the  extent  to  which  her  knowledge  of 
these  matters  went. 

"  You're  not  the  only  one  to  be  considered,"  said  Randy. 
"  You  don't  know  what  you  may  put  it  into  Oliver's  head  to 
hope  for.  His  mother  too.  You  ought  to  think  you  may  be 
laying  up  great  store  of  pain  and  disappointment  for  her  and 
the  girls.  For,  of  course,  it  would  be  a  great  thing  for 
them  to  have  Oliver  married  to  Sally  Green." 

"  Well,  what  if  I  really  did  it  ?" 

"  Then,  you  must  reap  what  you  sow.  Nothing  can  hin- 
der that." 

"  Good-bye,  Randy — you're  poor  company.  Do  you 
see  that  road  ?  I  wouldn't  take  it,  except  to  rid  you  of 
me." 

"  Don't  leave  me — come  this  way,  do  !" 

"  No  indeed — enough  for  one  day,  Randy.  But  don't 
look  so  solemn  over  it.  I  don't  believe  you  would  have 
been  so  hard,  but  you're  tired  carrying  that  great  baby." 
Sally's  voice  softened  a  little,  speaking  these  last  words,  and 
she  went  off  with  a  smile  on  her  face. 

Striking  into  the  road  that  led  directly  homeward,  Randy 
met  Senior  Jobson.  He  had  come  out  to  meet  her,  and  see- 
ing that  she  looked  tired  and  heated,  he  took  the  sleeping 
child  out  of  her  arms,  at  the  same  time  giving  her  a  letter. 

"  That's  from  your  minister,  I  guess.  I  put  it  into  my 
pocket  because  I  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question." 

Randy  took  the  letter,  looked  at  the  address,  and  then  at 
Senior. 


378  PETER    CARRADIXE. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "  this  is  from  Mr.  Collamer.  The  first 
letter  for  a  long  time." 

Senior,  who  had  not  removed  his  eyes  once  from  her,  ap- 
peared to  discern  in  her  composure  a  sign  of  encourage- 
ment, for  he  spoke  now  more  cheerfully. 

"Then  you  ain't  in  quite  such  close  communion?  I 
thought,  by  this  time,  it  must  be  all  settled." 

"  Settled  !     What  ?     It  is  all  settled."  j 

In  her  startled  exclamation,  her  confused  questioning, 
and  the  struggle  with  which  she  compelled  herself  to  speak 
the  last  words,  Senior  Jobson  seemed  to  receive  a  confirma- 
tion of  a  fear. 

"  I  thought  it  was  the  minister  that  cut  me  out,"   said 

he. 

That  he  had  ever  come  to  speak  thus  to  her  proved  too 
surely  that  he  had  never  really  resigned  his  hope  of  Handy. 
It  proved  as  much  to  her. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  said.  "  He  is  my  friend,  I 
tope — I  like  to  think  he  is — I  must  think  he  is.  But  it  was 
not  he  that  came  between  you  and  me."  Yet,  as  she  said 
this,  she  looked  at  Senior  as  if  under  some  sudden  convic- 
tion'; then  she  added,  with  a  changing  voice,  "  That  could 
not  have  been  his  work.  It  was  not  his  wish.  He  loves  an- 
other woman.  So  you  see  that — that,  in  the  way  you  think, 
he  could  not  have  come  between  you  and  me." 

"  Then  it  was  some  of  his  deuced  nonsense  that  set  you 
up  to  thinking  what  wasn't  kind  of  you  to  think  of  me.  The 
devil  isn't  as  black  as  he's  painted,  Randy.  I'll  say  that  till 
you  understand.  Them  eagles  I've  set  up  on  the  sign  are 
eagles,  not  angels.  I  never  set  up  for  a  saint.  But  if  I 
was  your  husband,  I  should  mind  I  didn't  offend  you  ;  not 
willingly  ;  I'd  be  careful.  There  !  I've  said  what  I  agreed 
with  myself  I  never  would.  It  isn't  like  me  to  be  urging  a 
woman  ;  but  you've  made  yourself  of  such  service  to  us,  I 
don't  know  how  we're  ever  going  to  get  along  without  you. 
I've  had  a  mind  to  sell  out  and  go  off,  all  for  thinking  of  it. 
You're  nearer  to  me  than  anybody.  And  it  appears  to  me 
that  you  might  see  it  was  right  so,  if  you  would." 

"  If  I  could  I  would,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  I'll  try  to  make  you  see  it." 

"  No  you  could  not.     Don't  try  it,  Senior  ;  don't  make  it 
any  harder  for  me  to  live.     I  haven't  any  heart  to  give  you ! 


WALKING    AMONG    THE    TOMBS.  3*79 

I  haven't  any  heart  to  give  to  any  one  but  God  !  I'm  willing 
to  stay  in  the  tavern.  I'll  try  my  best  to  make  it  all  com- 
fortable to  you.  I'll  look  after  the  children,  but  don't  ask 
anything  more  ;  don't  think  anything  more.  And  I  will  not 
even  ask  God  to  take  me  out  of  the  "world  as  long  as  I  can 
be  of  any  use  or  comfort." 

Senior  was  himself  too  much  disturbed  by  her  words,  and 
his  secret  comments  thereon,  to  observe  .how  greatly  dis- 
tressed Randy  was.  If  he  heard  the  appeal  she  made,  an 
appeal  words  could  not  frame,  it  moved  him  to  say: 

"  I  won't  keep  you  to  your  promise  then,  Randy.  It  may 
happen  you'll  live  longer  than  you  think,  and  change  your 
mind  about  staying.  It's  curious — maybe  you  won't  be- 
lieve it — but,  seeing  how  you  feel,  I'd  give  you  to  the  min- 
ister as  if  I  was  your  father.  I  won't  trouble  you  any  more. 
I'll  never  think  again  that  maybe  you've  changed  your  mind 
about  me.  There  !  I'm  sorry  ;  you're  too  good  to  be  bothered 
so.  But  it's  the  devil's  Feign,  I'm  thinking." 

"  Don't  say  that,  don't  think  it!  He  shall  reign  until  all 
enemies  are  put  under  His  feet  !  It  only  shows  how  weak 
we  are  when  we  are  tempted.  But  out  of  every  temptation 
He  provides  a  way  of  escape.  Give  the  baby  to  me,  Senior. 
See,  she  wants  to  come." 

The  baby  hall  wakened,  and,  finding  herself  nestled  in  so 
unusual  a  resting-place,  seemed  to  have  made  up  her  mind 
to  cry.  Senior  passed  her  over  to  Randy's  arms ;  and,  after 
she  was  thoroughly  awake,  she  wanted  to  walk,  so  Randy 
set  her  on  the  ground  between  herself  and  Senior. 

When  he  spoke  last,  Senior  had  a  vague  hope  or  expecta- 
tion, that  his  words  would  excite  the  woman's  pride,  once 
an  eminent  quality  ;  but  she  had  attempted  no  such  self-ex- 
oneration. That  she  had  loved  vainly,  according  to  his  ap- 
prehension, was  a  fact  with  which  her  pride  had  nothing  to 
do.  Senior  would  respect  her  secret ;  perhaps  it  was  no- 
thing to  regret  that  he  had  discovered  it.  She  had  nothing 
more  to  say  on  that  head. 

Nothing  more  to  say  at  all,  it  seemed  ;  or  else  too  much 
to  say  which  must  remain  unsaid.  So  they  walked  on  to  the 
tavern,  mindful  chiefly  of  the  child's  step  and  the  child's 
talk. 

The  letter  Randy  carried  home  with  her  had  some  passa- 
ges which  she  read  over  and  over  again.  It  seemed  to  be  a 


380  PETER  CAKRADINE. 

farewell  letter,  by  which,  taking  leave  of  all  the  past,  the 
minister  addressed  himself  to  his  work  with  a  new  energy. 
The  pastoral  year  had  again  expired,  and  his  new  appoint- 
ment would  carry  him  still  further  from  Martindale,  yet  he 
held  fast  to  the  recollection  of  her  friendship,  and  it  was  a 
consoling  remembrance  to  him.  He  spoke  of  his  experien- 
ces among  the  people  from  whom  he  was  about  to  depart,  as 
in  one  sense  disastrous.  Only  Love  had  failed  him  !  His 
labors  had  been  blessed  ;  he  had  been  able  to  do  much  for 
his  church  and  people  ;  and,  after  all,  he  was  able  to  say 
that  his  faith  in  man  and  woman  remained  firm. 

He  told  her  that,  if  she  wrote  to  him  again,  the  letter 
would  not  come  amiss.  Of  her  prosperity  in  this  life  he 
should  rejoice  to  know.  He  thanked  her  for  the  encourage- 
ment he  had  found  in  her  words  many  times.  The  subjects 
of  her  thoughts  and  prayers  could  never  fail  to  interest  him. 
A  sad  letter,  on  the  whole,  which  brought  Randy  to  her 
knees  to  pray  a  prayer  in  his  behajf  it  would  have  startled 
Mr.  Collamer  to  hear.  Tell  him  the  subject  of  her  prayers! 
How  should  mortal  make  report  for  human  eyes  or  ears  of 
that  which  has  been  left  with  tears  before  the  throne  of  the 
Almighty  ? 


OLIVER'S  RETURN.  381 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


OLIVERS         KETTJBN. 

IT  is  more  than  a  year  since  the  death  of  Elder  Green. 
Huldah,  in  the  homestead,  leads  a  rather  sad  and  lonely  life  ; 
much  troubled  when  she  thinks  of  the  Elder's  daughter, 
between  whom  and  herself  barriers  wider  than  were  ever 
built  of  stone  seem  to  have  arisen. 

Time  goes  on,  Time  all  comprehending  ;  Sally  endures  it 
without  much  complaint ;  but  she  aims  at  nothing,  and  is 
nothing  troubled.  She  is  merely  waiting. 

She  says  to  herself,  "  Oliver  is  coming  home."  And  she 
says  that  to  his  mother.  To  these  two  with  a  difference. 
To  soothe  the  latter,  for  it  is  long,  it  is  months  now,  since 
any  letter  came  from  him. 

She  says  It  to  herself.  Whenever  she  hears  any  swift 
driving  past  the  house  that  stands  on  the  corner,  sentinelled 
by  poplars,  she  runs  to  the  window  and  looks  out.  (And 
in  these  days  she  wears  a  ring.) 

She  says  it  to  herself  when  she  lies  down  at  night,  and 
when  she  rises  in  the  morning.  She  is  ever  restless.  She 
is  restive,  too  ;  impatient  and  longing.  She  looks  often — 
yes,  often  in  the  past  months  she  has  looked  at,  the  mar- 
riage certificate,  and  on  a  roll  of  blue  ribbons  that  figured 
on  a  time. 

She  is  calculating  what  she  shall  do  in  a  momentous  fu- 
ture, which  perchance  may  be  ushered  in  to-morrow.  It 
matters  not  to  her  she  must  leave  the  house  where  she  was 
born  ;  that  pleading  looks  of  dead  and  living  follow  her. 
Dead  and  living,  alike,  have  mistaken.  Who  should  coun- 
sel her  as  her  own  heart  ?  Who  should  understand  this 
place  as  well  as  she  ?  She  can  forgive  her  father — she  can 


382  PETER    CARRADINE. 

forgive  Huldah.  But  she  must  fulfil  the  vow  she  made  to 
Oliver  when  he  said  she  could  save  him. 

And  must  we  call  this  love  ?  It  is  at  least  a  passion 
powerful  enough  to  transform  and  color  all  things.  Power- 
ful enough  to  compass  sea  and  land,  and  defy  earth  and 
heaven. 

Huldah  Green  has  taken  her  knitting  work  and  gone  to 
sit  with  Junior's  wife  and  Randy  ;  she  finds  the  long  bright 
afternoons  so  lonely,  for  in  the  afternoons  Esther  is  always 
dozing — poor,  feeble,  childish  Esther — and  Sally  never 
comes  to  sit  with  Huldah,  choosing  solitude  rather  than 
such  society,  when  she  occupies  herself  with  any  ordinary 
woman  work. 

A  lonely  life  the  widow  leads.  She  often  goes  to  the 
grave  of  Elder  Green,  and  she  finds  it  a  small  consolation 
for  a  lonely  heart  to  be  left  "  well  provided  for."  To  be 
the  Elder's  widow,  with  "  her  thirds,"  and  the  use  of  the 
homestead  as  long  as  she  lives,  is  not  to  occupy  the  summit 
of  felicity,  she  thinks.  The  little  man  who  sleeps  under 
the  sod  was  very  dear  to  Huldah.  The  weariness  of  his 
slow  speech  and  the  rigor  of  his  piety  are  remembered  no 
more  against  him. 

If,  now,  she  could  only  come  near  to  his  daughter  !  If 
Sally  would  but  see  what  was  living  in  her  heart !  If  Sally 
would  only  consider  ! 

So,  finding  the  house  lonely  and  time  long,  Huldah  has 
gone  to  sit  with  her  friends  ;  she  can  speak  freely  to  Handy, 
who  seems  to  understand  so  well  when  she  lingers  over  her 
memories  of  her  first  wedded  years,  and  of  the  last  words 
of  tenderness,  the  last  cares  of  love.  Randy,  who  knows  so 
well  how  to  listen  and  to  soothe  ;  the  woman  without  whose 
presence  and  sympathy,  it  seems,  the  town  of  Martindale 
could  not  sustain  itself ! 

Sally  has  given  up  the  afternoon  to  a  duty  set  apart  for 
this  time.  Last  night  her  new  dress  was  sent  home  from 
Brighton — a  pink  dress  of  some  fine  thin  material ;  barege, 
doubtless — a  pink  dress,  flounced  to  the  waist,  six  full 
flounces,  edged  with  lace,  and  the  basque  likewise  orna- 
mented. She  has  curled  her  hair  and  prepared  herself 
elaborately,  out  of  deference  to  the  new  garment,  whose 
"  effect  "  she  is  curious  to  know. 

Her   mourning  dress  is  lying  on  a  chair  beside  the  table, 


OLIVER'S  RETURN.  383 

as   she    stands   before  her  glass  you  would  not  dream  that 
she  had  ever  mourned. 

The  house  seems  strangely  quiet.  It  is  not  strangely  so, 
but  so  it  seems,  for  Sally  is  not  quiet,  cool  and  undisturbed 
in  this  work.  She  need  not  fear  an  interruption.  Grand- 
ma is  asleep  ;  Huldah  is  gone  out ;  the  kitchen  girl  is  attend- 
ing to  her  business. 

Sounds  travel  far  to-day.  The  rumble  of  wagons  is  to  be 
heard  as  they  pass  to  and  fro  on  the  cross  roads  ;  and  any 
vehicle  approaching  on  the  main  road,  from  either  direction, 
gives  a  warning  to  the  house  screened  by  tall  poplars,  on 
the  corner. 

Suddenly,  while  Sally  fastens  a  bracelet  around  her 
wrist,  a  gold  band  whose  clasp  is  a  serpent's  head,  with  a 
jeweled  eye,  there  comes  a  sound  of  carriage  wheels,  and, 
true  to  her  habit,  she  is  at  the  window  looking' out.  Who 
passes  ?  Who  passes,  indeed  ! . —  the  light  carriage  has 
stopped  before  the  door — reins  are  dropped,  and  whoever 
has  come  is  already  out  of  sight — and  there  is  a  sound  of 
footsteps  in  the  hall  below. 

Some  one  calls  her  by  name  ;  then  she  repents  the  dress, 
and  seems  about  to  attempt  its  removal.  It  may  be  some- 
body from  Brighton.  It  must  be  somebody  in  need. 

And  she  goes  down  the  stairs. 

So  they  had  decorated  for  each  other  !  There  they  stood, 
those  two,  face  to  face. 

As  they  met,  they  shed  some  tears.  There  were  some 
broken  utterances  ;  some  stifled  sobbing  ;  even  a  "  thank 
God  !  "  And  all  was  forgotten  except  love — and  all  for- 
given, perhaps  even  the  dead  ! 

Jaunty,  and  fine,  and  overgrown,  Oliver  returns  to  Mar- 
tindale.  He  comes  back  in  a  sort  of  triumph. 

Travel  has  made  some  change  in  him,  and  he  was  never  a 
clown.  He  looks  like  a  man — and  a  handsome  man — a 
paragon  to  Sally. 

By  some  extraordinary  combination  of  circumstances,  he 
had  been  successful  beyond  all  expectation.  But  while  he 
worked  at  all,  Oliver  worked  hard,  and  he  returns  with  a 
sense  of  merit,  founded  on  that  fact.  He  has  his  rights  ; 
he  will  drive  straight  to  the  Elder's  house  and  assert  them. 
He  thinks  that  he  and  Sally  have  by  this  time  proved  each 
other  !  And  in  all  the  weariness  and  want  of  his  banish- 


384  PETER    CARRADINE. 

ment,  this  desire  has  been  paramount — to  proclaim  himself, 
to  be  acknowledged  in  that  town  of  Martindale,  which  has 
no  name  upon  the  map,  though  Butler  county  environs  it,  to 
be  acknowledged  there  the  husband  of  Sally  Green.  The 
Elder's  son-in-law  ! 

Yes,  she  has  no  objections ;  just  as  she  is,  she  will  go  up 
with  him  to  see  his  mother  ;  will  remain  with  him  there ;  or 
they  can  return,  and  grandma  will  be  easily  reconciled.  As 
to  Huldah,  it  makes  very  little  difference.  She  is  glad 
that  she  put  off  her  mourning — it  was  providential !  She 
will  go  with  him  as  she  is — it  will  be  a  double  joy  to  mother 
Savage.  And  Sally  shows  Oliver  the  ring.  Is  it  not  en- 
chanting, this  constancy  ?  Does  it  not  read  like  a  romance  ? 
Lovers  parting  under  such  doleful  conditions,  meeting  again 
in  such  blissful  circumstances  ?  Young,  rich,  handsome — 
valor  on  his  part,  condescension  on  hers  !  What  could  be 
rarer  ? 

Bound,  for  sickness  and  for  health  ;  for  poverty  or  riches  ; 
for  better  or  for  worse  !  Love  dares  it ;  and  love  may. 
For  love  can  stand  the  tests  of  weariness,  and  watching,  of 
pain  ;  every  seeming  change  in  the  dear  person  for  the  sake 
of  the  more  precious  spirit !  It  can  endure  the  tests  of 
want,  of  hunger,  of  all  privation  ;  of  all  that  follows  close  on 
the  loss  of  wealth  or  of  reputation.  Aye,  love  can  endure 
it,  for  love  is  Love.  But  vanity  !  and  world-pride  !  self- 
will  !  and  tyranny !  and  dull  ignorance  !  Poor  Oliver  !  more 
pitiable  Sally ! 

I  perceive  another  driving  than  that  of  this  brave  after- 
noon, when  two  chat  gaily  past  the  grave-yard,  the  rein 
unslackened  in  the  driver's  hand,  their  voices  still  high  and 
triumphant  in  their  tone. 

The  way  is  steep  and  narrow,  and  the  steeds  are  restive. 
A  reckless  hand  is  guiding  them.  Bystanders  shudder  at 
the  risks  they  run — they  can  see  better  than  the  driver  that 
the  woman  is  alarmed,  that  she  sees  the  danger !  They  see 
that  her  gestures  are  imperative,  and  that  he  heeds  them 
no  more  than  he  heeds  the  rushing  wind  ;  that  she  attempts 
at  last  to  save  herself,  when  ruin  is  imminent,  but  in  vain  ! 
It  is  too  late  ;  escape  is  impossible  !  Nothing  short  of  mir- 
acle can  avert  the  destruction  before  them  ! 

Alas  for  the  fine  garments  and  the  poor  display  !     Alas 


OLIVER'S  RETURN.  385 

for  Esther  Green,  who  lives  to  see  her  pride  laid  low 
as  the  dust  in  which  the  worm  trails !  Alas  for  a 
hearthstone  planted  for  no  pure  vestal  fires,  but  for 
folly  and  untruth,  for  lust  and  shame,  and  the  worship  of 
the  beast !  * 


17 


386  PETER  CARRADINE. 


CHAPTER    XUV. 

LIGHT      IN      THE      VALLEY. 

CAN  I  say  that,  when  Miranda  Roy  received  the  intelli- 
gence conveyed  to  her  by  the  minister,  she  pondered  the 
tidings  with  profoundest  sorrow  ?  What  reader  would  credit 
the  tale  ?  There  may  be  such  a  thing  as  perfect  sympathy, 
but  generally  he  who  stands  next  the  sorrowing  will  per- 
ceive that  their  sorrow  falls  something  short  of  the  absolute 
— that  it  has  its  mitigation. 

Miranda  believed  that  the  person  around  whom  Mr.  Col- 
lamer  had  seen  the  halo  that  numbered  her  among  the  beat- 
ific visions,  was  not  ordained  to  make  his  misery,  and  that, 
therefore  their  ways  had  suddenly  diverged.  And  when 
she  wrote  to  him  she  assured  herself : 

"  He  cannot  mistake  me.  I  can  speak  more  freely,  with 
a  securer  self-reliance  than  I  could  once.  This  woman  has 
deceived  him  ;  but  she  has  shown  what  sort  of  woman  Mr. 
Collamer  could  love.  Mrs.  Carradine  said  the  likeness  was 
of  a  fashionable  woman.  I  could  see  that,  myself." 

So  she  had  written  him  the  letter  he  looked  for  ;  kept 
him  not  waiting  for  it  long.  A  letter  weighed  and  meas- 
ured, every  word  and  line.  It  came  short  of  what  he  had 
hoped  for  ;  it  was  not  what  he  had  expected. 

But  its  deficiencies  were  not  those  of  incompetence,  he 
could  well  see,  he  did  well  know.  Her  letter  pained  him 
for  that  manner  of  sympathy  in  his  sorrow  of  which  he  could 
never  be  patient.  He  would  not  surrender  to  any  shape  of 
human  grief.  His  trust  in  the  Divine  love  and  protection 
was  too  firm  and  clear.  And  Handy's  letter  expressed  more 
of  Christian  patience  and  resignation  than  Christian  confi- 
dence and  joy.  When  he  looked  into  it  he  saw  that  this 


LIGHT    IN   THE   VALLEY.  387 

was  not  her  spirit's  natural  speech.  He  saw  it  more  clearly 
when  he  looked  into  her  old  letters  ;  it  was  a  brave  spirit  that 
spoke  through  them  ;  quite  a  different  spirit  from  that  which 
now  seemed  to  possess  her.  She  endeavored  to  speak 
peace  and  comfort  to  him  from  the  heavens,  where  she 
alone  had  found  them.  But  of  old  her  rejoicing  was  in  the 
seen  and  the  temporal,  transfigured  to  her  perception  by  the 
light  of  the  Divine  love  ! 

By  degrees  the  duties  and  the  cares  of  his  calling  absorbed 
him  again.  His  unfortunate,  unhappy  experience  ceased  to 
control  him — it  had  no  utterance,  and  it  seemed  to  have  no 
memory.  The  new  charge  and  the  new  people  were  suffi- 
cient to  absorb  his  time,  and  he  gave  to  them  his  thoughts, 
and  fought  against  the  weakness  of  the  drawing  toward 
Martindale,  which  he  had  felt,  at  one  time,  to  be  almost 
beyond  his  resistance. 

He  closed  and  sealed  up  that  experienje  of  his  which  had 
shown  him  to  himself  &  mortal,  vulnerable  man  ;  a  man  to 
tremble  for,  hardly  to  be  hoped  for  ;  capable  of  weakness, 
folly,  guilt. 

After  this  manner  was  his  growth  in  wisdom  ;  and  so  he 
stood  among  men  a  man  who  had  been  tried  and  tempted  ; 
who  had  yielded  to  temptations,  and  knew  the  anguish  of 
repentance  ;  a  guide  more  competent  because  he  had  passed 
through  the  darkness,  and  danger,  and  terror  of  the  way. 

Humanity,  the  brotherhood  of  all  Christ's  servants,  was 
now  the  constant  burden  of  his  speech  ;  and  men  flocked  to 
hear  it  as  if  it  were  a  new  evangel.  The  wisdom  of  experi- 
ence was  in  his  teaching ;  and  he,  in  his  bright  youth,  in- 
spired the  confidence  which  is  the  guerdon  of  old  servants 
in  the  ministry.  So  that,  still  in  his  youth,  his  fame  as  a 
speaker  extended  far  and  wide,  beyond  the  limits  of  his  own 
church,  and  became  a  sort  of  public  property,  in  which  men, 
as  men,  might  take  an  honorable  pride. 

Far  off,  Randy  watched  the  rising  and  the  shining  of  that 
star.  Why  was  she  not  surprised  ?  Why  was  no  deeper 
emotion  stirred  ?  Senior  Jobson  observed  her,  and  said  to 
himself : 

"  She's  the  girl  I  took  her  for  !  "  and  a  deal  of  consola- 
tion he  seemed  to  derive  from  that  self-assuring. 

One  Sunday  morning,  Jobson  harnessed  his  horse,  locked 
his  bar-room,  and  drove  down  to  Brighton.  Junior  and  his 


388  PETER   CARRAD1NE. 

wife  had  gone,  a  week  ago,  on  a  visit  up  the  country,  and 
Randy  was  left  in  charge  of  the  house  and  children.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  sudden  purpose  on  which  Senior  acted. 
All  the  early  morning  his  manner  indicated  that  he  had  the 
day  to  idle  in — ami  it  seemed  likely  that  he  would  spend  it 
according  to  his  usual  habit,  drinking  little,  smoking  much, 
and  napping  in  the  bar-room,  but  not  so  soundly  that  he  did 
not  hear  all  that  passed'around  him. 

Perhaps  some  forgotten  purpose  was  at  last  accidentally 
recalled,  for  he  seemed  to  have  conferred  with  no  one  when 
he  locked  the  bar-room  and  went  to  put  the  harness  on  his 
horse.  So  Handy  supposed  ;  but  the  fact  was  he  had  heard 
that  Mr.  Collamer  was  to  preach  that  day  at  Brighton,  and 
all  the  morning  Jobson  had  been  saying  to  himself,  "  To  go, 
or  not  to  go  ;  that  is  the  question."  To  himself  he  said  it ; 
it  was  no  part  of  his  present  purpose  to  take  Miranda  into 
his  counsel. 

Finally,  having  concluded  to  go,  he  went,  and  the  conse- 
quences must  look  out  for  themselves. 

The  little  church  was  crowded  to  overflowing,  when,  hav- 
ing left  his  horse  at  a  neighboring  tavern,  Senior  Jobson 
made  his  way  through  the  multitude,  until  he  came  within 
hearing  of  the  speaker's  voice.  To  see  him  one  could  not 
have  doubted  that  he  came  simply  on  an  errand.  But  the 
very  errand  required  that  he  should  listen  with  respect — 
and  with  respect  he  did  wait  through  a  preaching,  for  the 
first  time  since  he  was  a  child. 

If  what  he  heard  at  all  impressed  or  moved  him,  that  was 
not  apparent.  No  devotion,  no  anxiety,  no  serious  interest 
even,  was  visible  on  his  countenance.  He  saw  the  surprise 
he  had  excited  in  some  familiar  faces  ;  and  his  recognitions 
were  intended  to  convey  the  information  that  not  even  curi- 
osity, but  odd  chances,  had  conspired  to  bring  him  into  the 
midst  of  this  audience. 

But,  disguise  effectually  as  he  might  his  secret  convic- 
tions, Senior  was  not  insensible  to  the  power  of  the  speaker, 
neither  unmoved  by  his  eloquence.  And  he  was  endeavor- 
ing to  listen  not  entirely  for  himself;  but  as  if  he  were  a 
woman,  as  if  he  were  Miranda.  Martindale  was  not  so  far 
out  of  the  world  but  many  rumors  drifted  through  it  con- 
cerning that  world.  Mr.  Collamer's  experiences  were,  some 
of  them,  quite  notable  among  certain  circles,  and  to  the  ears 


LIGHT     IN     THE     VALLEY.  389 

of  Senior  Jobson  had  come  the  report  of  his  entanglement  in 
the  fortunes  of  Miss  Grey,  and  of  his  deliverance  from  them, 
when  the  world  rolled  as  a  tide  between  the  woman  of  his 
choice  and  the  man  of  Grod's  ordaining. 

Often  he  had  been  tempted  to  repeat  these  tales  to  Randy. 
But,  gossip  though  he  might  be,  he  found  that  he  had  not 
the  he'art  to  do  it.  She  would  be  sure  to  mistake  his  en- 
deavor— and  she  was  doing  well — was  living  quietly  in  peace- 
ful performance  of  her  work — as  well  this  manner  of  relig- 
ious consolation  served  her  as  any  rude  discovery  of  Colla- 
mer's  failure  to  make  good  a  claim  in  her  regard.  And  now 
he  had  gone  to  Brighton  to  see  the  man  with  his  own  eyes — to 
hear  him  with  his  ears.  To  see  him  with  a  woman's  eyes  and 
hear  him  with  a  woman's  ears,  it  seemed. 

When  the  congregation  was  dismissed,  and  the  people  be- 
gan to  disperse,  Senior  Jobson's  conduct  was  contrary  to  any- 
thing his  nearest  friend  could  have  anticipated.  Instead  of 
quitting  the  church  he  remained  within,  and  let  the  people 
surge  around  and  past  him,  as  composedly  as  an  island 
takes  the  flowing  of  a  river.  He  never  for  a  moment  lost 
sight  of  the  minister,  who  stood  now  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit 
stairs,  in  conversation  with  such  of  the  brethren  as  rallied 
there  to  fatigue  him  with  their  praises  and  their  hospitalities, 
and  to  cheer  him  with  their  thanks  and  sympathy. 

Towards  this  group  Mr.  Jobson  slowly  approached  when 
the  church  was  so  far  vacated  as  to  leave  him  a  conspicuous 
object  among  the  benches. 

He  had  felt  a  little  embarrassment  and  a  little  hesitation, 
some  irresolution,  while  he  stood  waiting  his  time,  but  the  in- 
stant he  stepped  into  the  aisle  and  advanced  toward  the 
pulpit  nothing  but  purpose  and  directness  was  observable  in 
him. 

Mr.  Collamer  saw  and  recognized  him,  and  advanced  to 
meet  him.  He  had  looked  about  him  in  his  preaching  with 
a  purpose  to  discover,  and  had  seen  no  friend  from  Mar 
tindale.  Last  of  all  would  he  have  looked  for  Senior  Job- 
son. 

He  shook  hands  with  him  so  cordially,  and  looked  up  into 
Jobson's  face  with  such  pure,  friendly  eyes,  that  Senior  at 
once,  assured  in  his  purpose,  said  : 

"  I  came  down  to  hear  you  preach,  sir.     I've  got  my  car- 


390  PETER     CARRADINti. 

riage  with  me.  Come  up  to  Martindell  and  spend  the  night. 
I've  my  reasons,  sir,  for  asking  it." 

The  minister  reflected  a  moment. 

"  I  must  be  in  Brighton  by  sunrise — how  could  that  be 
managed  ?" 

"  I'll  manage  it,"  said  Jobson,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
must  not  be  put  off.  "  You  shall  come  back  to-nighfr,  if  it 
suits  you." 

"  I  am  afraid  my  friends  will  expect  me  here  this  even- 
ing," ho  hesitated. 

"  I  said  I  had  my  reasons,"  repeated  Jobson,  speaking 
still  more  earnestly,  for  he  had  set  himself  to  accomplish 
something,  and  he  was  not  the  man  to  take  up  any  project 
with  spirit  and  drop  it  unaccomplished.  "  You  have 
preached  all  day.  You  look  as  if  it  was  killing  work,  sir. 
Give  'em  time  to  think  over  what  you've  told  'em.  And 
come  with  me ! — there  ain't  a  man  among  us  needs  you 
more." 

"  Is  it  so  ?  Then  I  will  leave  the  ninety  and  nice,  Jobson. 
Where's  your  horse  ?" 

"  I'll  have  him  at  the  door,  sir,  in  five  minutes." 

"  Very  well ;  you  will  find  me  waiting  in  the  porch." 

Jobson  turned  away  from  the  minister,  put  his  hat  on, 
pulled  it  well  down  on  his  forehead  and  walked  from  the 
church. 

But,  driving  toward  Martindale,  Jobson's  chief  desire  and 
aim  seemed  to  be  to  annihilate  the  distance.  The  minis- 
ter waited  in  vain  for  divulgence  of  the  confidences  he  ex- 
pected. He  could  not  doubt  that  Randy  was  in  some  way 
concerned  in  them  ;  but  Jobson  did  not  speak  her  name  un- 
til, having  asked  after  every  other  soul  he  knew,  Mr.  Col- 
lamer  mentioned  her.  Then  Senior  opened  his  mouth  and 
began  to  speak  in  earnest.  Such  a  tide  of  words  rolled 
from  him  as  had  rarely,  except  on  the  great  occasions  of  his 
life,  found  vent.  His  heart  and  brain  were  full  ;  and  it 
seemed,  as  he  went  on,  as  if  a  new  power  of  speech  had 
been  added,  this  day,  to  his  by  no  means  stammering  tongue. 
The  minister  listened  in  silence  to  his  rehearsal  of  Mi- 
randa's deeds,  her  daily  life,  her  character.  She  seemed  to 
have  been  the  innkeeper's  one  study  in  these  months,  and 
he  had  proved  her  to  a  depth  no  other  intelligence  had  done. 
How  many  times  he  had  caught  himself  going  from  her 


LIGHT    IN    THE    VALLEY.  391 

presence,  pierced  by  some  arrow  of  the  truth  that  she  was 
living!  How  her  purity  of  purpose,  and  her  self-sacrifices, 
had  shamed  him  in  surrender  to  temptations !  How  he  had 
lived  as  if  in  the.  sight  of  an  angel  who^se  "  rebukes  in  bless- 
ings ended,"  whose  firmness,  and  consistency,  and  steadfast- 
ness of  faith,  put  to  open  shame  his  more  pretentious,  and 
more  vascillating  courage  !  She  had  been  to  him  a  "  lively 
oracle,"  a  "  living  word  of  God,"  he  was  free  to  own  it. 
lie  did  own  it ;  and  he  told  Mr.  Collamer,  in  the  end,  that  it 
wasn't  for  himself,  as  he  may  have  supposed,  that  he  was 
taking  him  to  Martindell ;  it  was  because  he  thought  it  would 
please  Randy  to  see  the  minister  once  more. 

Nor  did  he  conclude  his  sayings  without  openly  declaring 
what  had  been  his  hope  once  in  regard  to  Miranda.  And 
how  she  had  promised  him  ;  and  how  she  had  seemed  after- 
wards to  have  a  waking  up,  that  showed  her  such  a  marriage 
was  not  lawful.  That,  for  a  long  time,  he  had  not  seen  it  so,  but 
now  his  mind  was  changed,  not  towards  her — God  bless  her  ! 
— but  in  regard  to  his  fitness  for  her  !  He  had  got  over 
that  sort  of  thing  ;  he  should  never  marry.  But  he  hoped 
that  Randy  might.  He  thought  that  Randy  should.  If  he 
could  give  her  up  to  a  good  man  she  loved,  if  there  was  a 
man  in  the  world  she  could  love,  it  would  be  with  all  his 
heart ! 

And  what  he  had  to  say,  Senior  had  not  quite  made  an 
end  of  when  he  reined  his  horse  in  before  the  Spread 
Eagle. 


How  did  the  preacher  listen  ?  As  a  man  does  before 
whom  men  and  women  are  wont  to  unburden  themselves  of 
secret  thoughts  and  deep  experiences  ?  Could  he,  with 
philosophic  calmness,  the  assurance  of  Christian  philosophy, 
refer  all  these  matters  from  their  beginning  to  their  ulti- 
mate, and  hail  Sorrow  as  the  purifier,  and  Duty  as  the  gen- 
tlest of  friends  ? 

While  they  drove  through  the  lovely  country  that  Sun- 
day afternoon,  was  it  in  his  heart  to  clasp  the  driver's  hand 
as  the  hand  of  a  brother  ?  Would  he  fain  have  hurried  on 
yet  faster  ?  Were  they  going  too  fast  ?  Did  he  hear  more 


392  PETER    CARRADINE. 

than  Senior    spoke  ?     Had   he   anything  to  say  to  Randy 
worth  a  drive  from  Brighton  ? 


See  him  greeting  her  !  What  is  there  in  that  greeting  ? 
They  whom  it  concerns  look  in  each  other's  eyes  to  see. 
And  Senior  has  gone  off  and  left  them  to  a  quiet  talk,  in  this 
close  of  the  quiet  Sabbath,  the  first  day  of  the  week. 


She  was  surprised  !  She  had  not  expected  to  see 
him? 

No,  not  yet.  But  a  neighbor  had  stopped  at  the  spring  an 
hour  ago,  and  he  told  her  that  Mr.  Collamer  was  pfeaching  in 
Brighton  to-day.  She  thought  that,  perhaps  to-morrow,  he 
would  come.  Did  not  believe  that  he  would  return,  when  he 
had  come  so  near,  without  risking  his  friends  in  Martin- 
dale. 

And  now  his  visit  must  be  brief;  so  brief!  But  there 
were  hours  of  daylight  yet ;  if  she  would  go  with  him  he 
would  like  to  see  the  place  where  her  father  was  buried — 
good  old  Elder  Green  too.  Would  she  lead  the  way  ? 

So  they  walked,  talking  of  the  dead  and  of  the  living. 
Along  the  lonely  road,  bordered  by  fair  fields,  meadow 
lands  and  orchards.  Oh,  night  to  stand  alone  in  mem- 
ory forever  !  Side  by  side  ;  two  in  time  ;  one  for  eter- 
nity! 

From  many  things,  he  turned  at  last  to  speak  of  himself 
as  he  had  never  written.  A  speech  of  more  significance 
than  friendship  could  account  for.  Not  to  make  light  of, 
not  to  dwell  bitterly  upon  the  experience  that  had  shown 
him  to  himself  a  man  to  be  repented  of;  a  man  to  be  atoned 
for.  He  let  her  see  the  path  by  which  he  had  come  to  a 
new  possession  of  himself.  For  he  could  see  that,  though  he 
was  now  here  by  the  aid  of  Senior  Jobson,  it  was  not  by  the 
mere  will  of  man !  And  in  the  end  he  said,  stopping  short 
in  the  lonely  road  : 

"  Miranda,  Jobson  brought  me  here  by  God's  will,  I  be- 
lieve. It  is  but  just  I  should  say  again,  what  I  have  many 
times  acknowledged,  that,  since  I  knew  you,  you  have  been 


LIGHT     IN     THE     VA.LLEY.  393 

my  inspiration  to  every  good  work  and  labor  of  love  I  have 
been  able  to  accomplish.  I  have  told  you  all.  Judge. 
With  you  I  could  do  my  best.  While  I  was  so  infatuated,  I 
believe  that  you  were  still  my  ideal,  and  the  woman  who  fren- 
zied me  only  represented  you  in  another  shape  than  your 
true  and  noble  form.  I  love  you  ;  I  have  always  loved  you. 
I  ask  you  to  go  with  me,  and  share  my  work  and  bless  my 
life,  and  let  us  see  once  more  that  it  is  a  new  world,  as  we 
did  once  ;  I  know  that  we  are  living  under  a  new  dispensa- 
tion !" 

How  answered  she  ?  Not  as  one  in  doubt,  to  be  confused 
by  a  marvel. 

"  It  is  a  new  world.  We  are  living  under  a  new  dispen- 
sation," she  said,  struggling  into  speech.  "Yes,  yes; 
you  showed  me  the  way  of  life  once.  I'll  walk  in  it.  God  ! 
—my  God  !" 

So  hard  it  was  to  drink  "  this  wine  of  astonishment," 
so  incredible  to  her  seemed  this  rolling  away  of  the  grey 
shadows  that  showed  Heaven  crystal  pure  and  bright ! 

He  took  her  hand  in  silence  ;  he  drew  her  arm  through 
his;  he  led  her  tq  the  roadside,  and  they  sat  down  under 
the  great  branches  of  a  walnut  tree  ;  and  fast  their  tears  ran, 
and  their  words  were  few. 

"  He  will  complete  His  work.       I  seem  to  be   lost   in 

life— 

"  '  The  world  recedes,  it  disappears  ! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes — my  ears 
With  sounds  seraphic  ring !'  " 

"Blessed  be  God  !"  she  answered.  But  she  did  not  add, 
/  knew  this  day  ivould  come.  For  with  the  recall  of  the 
conviction,  which  had  indeed  endured  through  years,  came 
the  recollection  of  doubt,  and  of  despair  and  resignation  ;  and 
that  dreary  wintry  calm  that  held  no  presage  of  the  tropical 
day. 

"  Is  it  indeed  to  go  with  you  day  by  day,  and  care  for 
you,  and  love  you  ? — in  your  thought  and  in  your  heart  ?" 
she  marvelled. 

"  The  sunshine  in  my  heart !  The  long  calm  summer  sea- 
son in  which  all  that  is  good  shall  quicken  and  be  perfected. 
My  best  sense,  my  most  chaste  will,  my  best  source  of  inspi- 
ration." 

"  Because  I  know  that  you  are  everything  to  me,  I  would 


394  PETER   CARRADINE. 

not  be  less  to  you.  Only  God  above  us.  God  witbin  us. 
All  in  all." 

So  stood  he  before  her  eyes  most  complete  of  all  that  live. 
So  stood  she  to  his  vision,  as  an  angel,  fair  and  strong. 

And  their  speech  could  no  man  understand,  except  the 
loving — and  it  befits  well  no  audience  except  that  of  the  un- 
Been  whose  company  is  not  intrusion,  but  blessing  and  honor. 

On  this  Sunday  evening  a  new  hour  has  struck,  whose 
soft  echo  rolls  over  the  great  deep  of  eternity.  It  blends 
with  the  divine  harmony  of  God's  own  universe — a  tone  that 
never  can  be  lost,  absorbed  or  wrought  into  discordance.  Oh, 
all  ye  loving,  listen  ;  you  shall  discern  the  sound,  and  smile 
for  Bandy's  sake. 


A    DAY    OF    THE    LORD.  395 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

A      DAY      OF      THE      LORD. 

IN  October,  Christian  Peter  Carradine  was  born.  Hare 
event ! 

Perhaps  ten  thousand  infants  drew  their  first  mortal 
breath  on  that  same  fine  morning. 

But  he  was  Carradine's  son ;  and  what  to  Peter  Carradine 
were  the  nine  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  that, 
under  frescoed  ceilings,  surrounded  by  bare  walls,  pure 
white,  smoke-stained,  broken,  in  mud  cabins,  in  the  wig- 
wams of  red  Indians,  in  the  bungalos  of  natives,  in  barracks, 
on  the  ocean,  in  the  tents  of  Arabs,  in  damp  and  dismal 
cellars,  in  the  crowded  city,  on  the  lonely  heath,  amidst 
fearful  confusion,  in  deep  silence,  and  in  death,  in  anguish, 
in  shame,  in  pride,  in  holy  thankfulness  were  born  ? 

What  to  him  nine  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine, 
of  every  shade  of  circumstance  ?  Here,  in  his  arms,  he 
had  held  the  son  of  Mercy — a  silent,  helpless  creature,  of 
whom  they  should  make  A  MAN. 

Carradine  sat  alone  on  the  piazza  of  his  new  Home  on  the 
hill,  on  the  fine  evening  of  that  day,  sat  there  without  smok- 
ing. He  sat  in  silence,  his  arms  folded  across  his  broad 
chest ;  and  he  thought,  with  tearful  eyes,  with  a  heart  hum- 
ble and  tender,  of  his  childhood's  home,  and  he  vowed  to 
God  that  he  would  honor  Him  in  making  happy  the  life  of 
the  child  that  slept  on  Mercy's  bosom. 

He  saw  in  vision  a  little  figure  following  his  young 
mother  in  smooth  garden  walks — made  smooth  for  childish 
feet.  Running  along  the  road  that  led  down  to  the  school- 
house  where  his  mother  was  once  a  teacher.  A  little  lad 
hunting  berries  in  the  wood;  driving  the  cows  home  night 


396  PETER   CARRADINE. 

and  morning  ;  playing  in  the  fields  ;  sitting  by  bis  side 
when  he  drove  the  carriage  down  to  Brighton  ;  going  away 
from  home  to  learn  what  young  men  learn  in  High  Schools 
and  in  Colleges ;  making  the  name  of  Carradine  one  of  the 
names  of  the  world. 

Oh,  strong  paternal  love  !  In  that  happy  hour,  as,  by  the 
release  and  the  liberty  of  God,  he  took  no  note  of  disaster 
or  of  failure,  of  temptation  or  of  death.  No  ruin  was  seen 
in  his  Eden — no  serpent  crept  through  its  paths.  It  was 
all  easy  ;  all  fair.  In  his  strong  love  he  saw  no  evil  that 
could  not  be  swept  away  by  a  hand- wave,  by  a  word. 

So,  again  and  again,  he  went  over  the  ground  of  that  fair 
childhood  and  most  noble  youth.  There  were  things  which 
he  alone  could  teach  his  son.  Much  of  which  the  child's 
mother  could  alone  be  the  teacher.  He  looked  at  all  things, 
as  it  seemed,  through  a  new  medium.  All  things  seemed 
to  him  transfigured.  The  most  simple  affairs  were  become 
endued  with  a  new  dignity  by  virtue  of  the  young  eyes  that 
should  come  to  knowledge  of  them  ;  the  pure  young  heart, 
the  pure  young  life  tha-t  should  have  to  deal  with  them. 

Doubtless  in  many  homes  loving  men  were  thinking  in 
his  vein  ;  enough  so  thinking  that  bright  morning,  to  sanc- 
tify the  world ;  enough  to  prove  its  continuance  in  the 
name,  as  by  the  power  of  love. 

But — shall  we  dare  enter  the  room  where  this  one  new 
life  slumbers  ?  Or  enter  the  sanctuary  of  her  thoughts, 
who,  through  sleep  and  waking,  is  to  guard  the  child  ? 
Look  with  her  eyes  to  the  future,  and  see  how  she  deter- 
mines her  son  shall  come  to  man's  estate  ? 

Who  but  she  should  prophesy  the  future  of  her  son  ?  In 
her  will  and  in  her  heart  it  is  an  end  decided.  From  tJie 
foundations  of  this  world,  this  being,  its  last  day  is  deter- 
mined. Yes,  who  but  she  should  prophesy  ?  Who  but  a 
woman  so  presume  ?  Who  but  a  mother,  through  such 
fears,  so  trust  ?  The  all-cognizant  mother  ! 

A  work  to  be  done,  moment  by  moment,  hour  by  hour, 
day  by  day — a  woman's  never-ending  work.  God-like  in 
this,  that  it  could  never  be  ended.  So  vast,  so  comprehend- 
ing. It  is  the  finite  who  dream  of  completion.  But  a  mo- 
ther's love,  her  aspirations  have  the  nature  of  infinity. 

Never  for  a  moment  was  this  burden  she  had  lifted  to  be 
laid. 


A    DAY    OF    THE    LORD.  397 

Alas  for  Mercy  Carradine  if  she  could  not,  having  entered 
on  this  work  find  in  its  progress  the  consummation  of  all 

joy; 

She  was  the  child's  mother.  What  must  he,  in  his  un- 
folding consciousness,  come  to  perceive  in  her  ?  Wisdom 
and  strength,  courage  and  tenderness;  the  whole  being  of 
love.  How  should  she  dare  make  a  less  perfect  revelation 
to  his  eyes,  who  would  look  to  her  with  growing  Expectation 
through  these  coming  years  ? 

Great  men  are  the  offspring  of  noble  mothers.  So  had 
she  read  in  many  a  record,  with  perpetual  proving.  What 
right  then  had  she  to  give  her  son  to  the  world  bound  in  any 
faculty,  in  any  manner  impoverished  or  impaired  ?  Nay,  a 
free  being  must  he  be,  with  all  the  freedom  of  virtue. 

It  were  much  to  follow  her,  as  she,  in  fancy,  fulfilled,  hour 
by  hour,  her  Holy  Work. 

Perhaps  no  vain  labor,  if  but  one  who  trusts  that  miracles 
will  atone  hereafter  for  ignorance  and  neglect  could  under- 
stand how  life  is  only  discord,  when  it  defies  God's  law. 

She  had  the  consciousness  that  it  was  hers  to  make  of 
this  child  what  she  would  !  And  she  had  the  surety  in  that 
consciousness  that,  if  her  doing  was  according  to  the  will,  it 
would  be  likewise  with  the  certainty  of  God's  own  working. 
It  being  impossible  that  His  blessing  should  be  withheld 
where  His  pleasure  is  wrought ;  the  blessing  being  in- 
volved in  the  working  ;  the  doing  conveying  knowledge  of 
the  will.  *  *  *  * 

Why,  she  asked,  and  well  might  ask  herself,  why  should 
any  woman  working  in  the  fear  of  God  for  her  children, 
never  neglecting  the  work  she  has  dared  to  engage  in,  con- 
stant in  it  as  one  who  has  come  up  to  the  dignity  of  the 
work  that  is  for  eternity,  fear  to  ask  the  future  what  the  end 
shall  be  ? 

How  can  it  be  other  than  triumphant  ?  Is  God  the  ene- 
my of  his  creatures,  or  rather  is  "all  love  and  all  law." 
She,  this  mother,  was  not  thinking  of  worldly  gain,  but  of 
that  which  endures  through  mutations  of  time,  and  shall 
outlast  "  pillars  of  earthly  pride"  and  "  tenements  of  dust ;" 
even  virtue,  integrity  and  love. 

She  was  right — let  it  be  said,  though  the  praise  seem  to 
some  impertinent ;  as  if  otherwise  were  to  be  overlooked — 
were  to  be  forgiven  !  For,  doubtless,  if  you  educate  a  liar 


398  I'ETKIi  CAU11AD1JSE. 

from  the  cradle,  you  shall  have,  oh  woman,  a  mendacious 
manhood  in  your  son  !  If  you  nurse  a  thief  or  any  manner 
of  moral  imbecility,  tyranny,  or  lust,  or  pride,  anger,  or 
vanity,  or  selfishness,  "  the  mill  of  God  grinds  slow,  but  it 
grinds  to  powder,"  and  "  there  are  no  fans  in  hell." 

And  could  Mercy  Carradine  be  so  honest,  now  that  one 
was  in  the  world  whom  she  must  acknowledge,  long  as  life 
should  las?  for  either,  as  her  son,  could  she  be  so  honest  ai  d 
so  brave  as  to  charge  home  the  shame  of  this  and  every  gei- 
eration  of  civilized  life,  even  as  its  glory  also,  back  on  the 
heart,  let  us  not  say  the  will  of  woman,  as  its  source  ? 

There  may  be  some  men  who  would  lightly  assent  to, 
even  as  there  are  some  women  who  will  darkly  resent,  the 
hard  saying.  But  neither  in  this  world,  nor  in  that  which  is 
to  come,  is  there  any  real  evasion  of  responsibility.  Neg- 
lect of  duty — enough  of  it. 

Responsibility  evaded — none  ! 

The  most  perfect  human  life,  the  Divinest  life,  the  heav- 
enliest,  was  born  of  a  woman  ;  for  the  world's  encourage- 
ment, as  for  the  world's  redemption.  Mercy  Garradine  be- 
lieved this  in  her  heart.  She  saw  something  of  the  vast, 
all-comprehending  truth.  It  has  often  enough  been  repeat- 
ed. Ah, *but  think  of  the  legions  of  women  to  whom  this 
truth,  sublimest  of  all,  comes  as  a  hard  saying,  who  can 
bear  it  ?  As  an  incredible  saying,  who  will  believe  it  ? 

But — will  God  dwell  with  men  ?  Behold,  the  Heaven 
of  Heavens  cannot  contain  him,  how  much  less  a  woman's 
heart  ! 

So  we  must  have  our  images  of  life  !  Our  slaves  of  every 
passion,  our  jails,  asylums,  houses  of  refuge.  For  preven- 
tion is  not  better  than  cure  !  And,  in  no  sense  conceivable, 
is  the  benevolence  of  this  age  a  disgrace  to  the  race  ! 

Mercy  saw  the  relation  she  sustained  towards  God's  uni- 
verse— the  mother  of  a  child.  Alas,  ye  scoffing  unbelievers, 
how  do  ye  avouch  the  veracity  of  that  record  by  which  we 
know  that,  when  Moses  talked  with  God  in  the  mountain,  the 
people  made  their  precious  calf  for  worship  ;  for  their  God, 
substituted  a  beast. 

Do  we  read  of  ships  loosed  from  the  docks,  in  whose 
mighty  planks  some  atom  of  a  worm  has  lodged  itself,  atom 
that  shall  hereafter  plunge  a  thousand  souls  into  the  ocean's 
depths  ?  But  science  was  at  work  here,  science  that  was 


A     DAY     OF     THE     LORD.  399 

sacred,  and  would  never  yield  to  haste,  or  to  haste's  expedi 
encj. 


So  Mrs.  Johnson  said  to  Huldah  Green, 

"  Here,  look  at  the  pretty  creetur  !  Christian  Peter  .' 
there's  a  name  for  you  !  It's  got  a  voice  for  you,  it  has  ! 
and  he's  thinking  such  a  thing  never  happened  on  this  earth 
before.  He  calls  it  Bird,  and  Rose,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson, 
with  a  softened  voice,  "  and  you'd  wonder  to  hear  the  ques- 
tions that  man  asks.  I've  hit  on  an  answer  for  short  that  I 
give  'm  if  I  hear  the  sound  of  his  boots  after  me.  Says  I, 
'  It's  all  right,  sir,'  but  he  put  me  to  the  blush  once  on 
that,  and  I'll  own  it  to  you,  Huldah  ;  says  he,  '  Then  it  isn't 
all  wrong,  Mrs.  Johnson  ?  There's  peace  between  you  and 
me  ?  It's  £  child,'  said  he,  '  brought  peace  to  the  poor 
world  once,  and  by  that  token  we'll  keep  it  in  this  house.'  ' 

The  frank  voice  of  Mrs.  Johnson  trembled  as  she  spoke, 
and  she  ended  her  remarks  with  unexpected  abruptness. 
Huldah  wiped  her  eyes,  and,  smiling  on  the  baby,  kissed  it, 
repeating  as  she  rose  to  heights  that  loomed  above  her  expe- 
riences, 

"  It's  all  right,  Mrs.  Johnson." 


If  the  burden  Mercy  had  to  bear  was  great,  love,  she  knew, 
could  lighten  it,  and  leave  it  not  weighty  beyond  glad  and 
proud  endurance.  The  trust  came  to  her  as  from  God,  and 
she  said,  "  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord." 

So  the  house  of  Carradine  became  a  temple,  and  sacred 
service  was  conducted  there  !  So  "  Heaven"  lay  around 
that  "  infancy  !" 


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"  One  of  the  remarkable  work*  of  the  present  age,  and  one  in  which  the  author  reviews, 
with  curious  erudition,  and  In  a  profoundly  philosophical  spirit,  the  various  changes  that 
have  taken  place  in  the  Roman  hierarchy ;  and,  while  he  fully  exposes  the  manifold  er- 
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"  BOSTON,  October  11,  I860. 

"  Gentlemen: — I  have  great  pleasure  in  expressing  a  most  favorable  opinion  of  Dean 
Milman's  '  History  of  Latin  Christianity.' 

14  Through  the  kindness  of  the  author,  I  have  been  acquainted  with  the  work  since  Its 
first  appearance  in  England.  It  is  a  work  of  vast  research,  conducted  with  judgment 
and  discrimination  aicontc  authorities  of  very  diverse  weight,  and  nut  seldom  contacting 
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produced  no  more  valuable  work. 

"  1  remain,  gentlemen,  with  great  respect,  truly  yours,       EDWARD  EVEEETT." 

"  ST.  GEORGE'S  RBOTOBY,  October  17, 1860. 
•MBSSRS.  SHELDOX  &  Co.: 

"  Gentlemen:  I  am  exceedingly  gratiflcd  with  the  appearance  of  your  new  edition  of 
Milman's 'Latin  Christianity.'  It  is  a  work  equally  remarkable  for  the  extent  of  its  re- 
search, the  fullness  of  its  material,  and  the  eloquence  and  beauty  of  its  arrangement  and 
style.  Its  impartiality  of  statement  and  deductions  is  a  very  distinguishing  feature  of  its 
excellence,  and  it  will  doubtless  take  its  place  among  those  histories  which  finally  oc- 
cupy their  whole  projected  ground,  and  remain  as  permanent  authorities  among  men. 
«  Yours  respectfully,  STEPHEN  H.  TYNO." 

"  USiOK  THEOLOGICAL,  SEMIXAKT, 

New  York,  Oct.  19, 1860. 
"  Mitssas.  SHK.DON  <fe  Co. : 

u  Dean  Milman's  '  llistor.y  of  Latin  Christianity'  Is  not  only  the  ablest  work  of  its  dis 
tinguished  author,  but  it  also  takes  the  front  rank  in  English  historical  and  ecclesiastical 
literature.  Written  in  a  liberal  and  impartial  spirit,  it  presents  in  an  attractive  style 
the  result,  rather  than  the  processes,  of  thorough  investigation  in  a  field  almost  nn  visited 
Dy  English  Church  historians.  General  and  ecclesiastical  history  are  here  so  combined, 
that  the  work  is  indispensable  to  every  student.  Your  elegant  and  cheap  edition  de- 
serves the  widest  circulation,  and  will,  I  doubt  not,  find  its  way  into  every  good  11 
brary,  private  or  public.  HENliY  B.  SMITH." 

**  The  enterprise  and  usefulness  of  the  Publishing  House  of  Sheldon  A  Co.,  are  exhib- 
ited in  the  continued  issues  of  great  standard  religious  works,  such  as  the  Christian  stu- 
dent must  have,  and  are  valuable  in  all  time.  Among  these  books,  and  in  the  front  rank 
of  religious  h 
fun  to  publis 
umph  of  Chr 
of  th»  world."— Jfttc  York  Observer 


Books  Published  by  Sheldon  <t  Co. 


THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OP 

MBS.   EMILY   0.   JUDSON, 

(FANNT  FORRESTEB,) 

TLird  wife  of  the  Rev.  Acbniram  Judson,  D.D.,  Missionary  to  Burnmh. 

3y  A.  0.  KENDRICK,  Professor  of  Greek  in  the  University  of  Rochester. 

1  voL  12mo.,  with  a  steel-plate  Likeness  of  Mrs.  Jndson. 

Price  $1  25. 

"  The  narrative  is  carefully  and  beautifully  written."—  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  This  '  Life  and  Letters'  must  take  a  high  rank  among  the  religious  biography  af  am 
Country." — New  Bedford  Mercury. 

"  Not  least  among  the  many  charms  of  this  delightful  bit  of  biography  will  be  i«« 
•Pgnizod  several  sunny  letters  from  N.  P.  Willis,  to  his  literary  proteg6,  which  presen 
fie  Home  Journalint  in  a  most  pleasing  light." — Cor.  Boston  Post. 

"It  is  a  biography  uncommonly  rich  with  all  the  materials  which  a  gifted  and  devoted 
woman  could  supply  from  the  stores  of  her  well-spent  life.  The  world  and  the  Church 
•hould  both  bo  grateful  for  these  records  of  genius,  and  these  triumphs  of  Christian  faith, 
contained  within  the  pages  of  this  charming  book." — Christian  Intelligencer. 

"Her  correspondence  is  marked  by  frankness  and  an  intensity  of  passion,  and  its  pern- 
sal  gives  the  reader  an  insight  into  her  character,  which  he  feel*  to  bo  as  truthful  and 
positive  as  a  personal  acquaintance  of  considerable  familiarity  could  afford.  As  a  bior- 
raphy,  the  volume  occupies  the  first  rank.  It  is  full  of  unpretending  pathos,  and  will  be 
widely  read,  valued,  and  treasured  as  a  beautiful  and  thrilling  history  of  one  of  the  most 
talented,  unselfish,  noble,  heroic,  and  devoted  of  women." — Congregational  Int. 

"  In  biography,  this  is  th6  book  of  the  season — and  of  many  seasons.  We  confess  U 
having  always  felt,  in  spite  of  our  reluctance,  an  unpleasant  degree  of  misgiving  as  to  tht 
fitness  of  '  Fanny  Forrester'  for  the  work  of  missions ;  but  as  Dr.  Kendrick  has  por- 
trayed her  character  and  recorded  her  life,  she  carries  our  sympathy— our  admiration— 
our  reverence,  by  storm.  Henceforth  we  place  her  among  the  heroines  and  martyrs  of 
Christianity.  Not  because  we  forgive  'Alderbrook'  for  the  sake  of 'Bat  Castle'— oui 
old  way  of  thinking  was  somewhat  in  that  style — but  because  we  see  now  how  the  spirit 
of  unselfish  consecration  to  the  happiness  of  others  runs  through  both,  and  makes  them 
'parts  of  one  harmonious  whole.'  Her  'Life  and  Letters' are  worthy  of  an  immense 
sale,  and  will  have  it.  How  'a  digger  among  Greek  roots'  could  write  such  a  fresh, 
appreciative,  glowing  memoir  of  '  a  sensitive  child  of  genius  and  song,'  passes  our  com- 
prehension ;  and  we  can  not  forbear  the  remark,  that  Mrs.  Judson  does  not  rise  more 
In  our  esteem  as  a  Christian  woman,  thsn  Dr.  Kendrick  as  an  author." — Religious  Her- 
aid,  Richmond. 

"The  correspondence  is  particularly  attractive.  Sweetness,  simplicity  affectionate- 
ness,  and  humor  are  its  characteristics.  The  volume  will  raise  even  the"  high  estimate 
which  the  public  has  formed  of  Mrs.  Judsou.  The  nearer  it  conducts  us  to  the  most 
•ecret  feelings  of  her  heart  and  most  cherished  convictions  of  her  mind,  the  more  genial, 
loveable,  and  noble  she  appears." — Boston  Tran  script. 

"The  letters  of  Dr.  Judson  throw  new  light  upon  his  loving,  genial  nature,  and  show 
how  thoroughly  his  last  marriage  was  one  of  affection,  and  how  happy  it  proved.  Fot 
her  faithfulness  to  every  duty,  her  self-sacrificing  generosity  to  her  family,  her  devotion 
to  ner  husband,  the  maternal  love  which  knew  no  difference  between  his  children  and 
her  own,  and  the  ever-growing  beauty  of  her  spiritual  life,  Mrs.  Emily  C.  Judson  de*err<« 
»  largo  place  in  the  public  heart."— Boston  Journal. 


Books  Published  by  Sheldon  <t  Co. 


FORTY  YEARS'  EXPERIENCE  IN  SUNDAY- 
SCHOOLS. 

By  STEPHEN  n.  TTXG,  D.D. 

Rector  of  St  George's  Church,  New  Yoric 

1  neat  16mo  vol.    Price  60  cents. 


"  JU  a  matter  of  course  the  volume  is  in  a  measure  autobiographical,  which  w»oi4 
•!••«  secure  general  attention  to  it." — Boston  Gazette. 

"No  one  Is  entitled  to  speak  abont  Sunday-schools  with  more  authority  than  Dr. 
I"yng,  and  no  one  can  read  this  volume  without  obtaining  most  valuable  hints  for  th« 
management  of  a  Sunday-school." — >SoutJiern  Cliurcliman. 

"  In  a  literary  point  of  view,  they  are  marked  by  all  the  excellencies  for  which  th« 
reverend  author  is  noted  ;  while  the  amount  of  real,  useful  knowledge  they  convey  In  a 
brief  and  practical  form,  upon  a  subject  the  importance  of  which  is  little  understood,  U 
really  surprising." — Troy  Times, 

"Every  Sabbath-cchool  teacher  should  read  it;  every  pastor  might  profit  by  it" — Ji. 
T.  Independent. 

"  This  will  be  a  very  welcome  volume  to  Sunday-school  teachers,  and  Jto  all  who  ar* 
Interested  in  Sunday-schools.  It  embodies  the  experience  and  the  counsels  of  one  who 
by  his  deep  interest  in  the  cause,  and  by  a  personal  devotion  to  the  work,  even  in  its  de- 
tails, and  by  a  success  which  has  been  rarely  if  ever  equaled,  is  qualified  to  speak  with 
great  profit  upon  the  important  subject  We  have-often  made  mention  of  the  school  at 
8t  George's  church,  as  perhaps  the  largest  in  the  country,  and  as  exhibiting  results,  not 
only  in  the  chief  end  ef  Sabbath-school  instruction,  but  in  the  great  work  of  Christian 
benevolence  and  Christian  activity,  which  are  delightful  to  contemplate.  In  these  page* 
the  author  imparts,  in  a  measure,  the  secret  of  this  success.  We  are  sure  that  the  volume 
has  a  great  mission  to  accomplish  for  good." — -V.  Y.  Observer. 

"Dr.  Tyng  commenced  his  Sabbath-school  labors  as  a  missionary  In  the-  town  of 
Quincy,  Massachusetts,  in  1S19,  and  ever  since,  in  all  his  ministerial  labors  has  civen  th» 
Sabbath -school  a  prominent  place,  In  later  years,  it  would  seem,  almost  the  first  place  in 
bis  plans  for  doing  good.  Earnest,  laborious,  inventive,  evangelical,  and  having  in  most 
of  his  career  the  amplest  resources  at  his  command,  his  experience  can  not  but  be  wor- 
thy of  tho  most  attentive  consideration  of  all  who  are  interested  in  this  kind  of  instruc- 
tion. Considering  the  wealthy  character  of  Dr.  Tyng's  church,  we  were  hardly  prepared 
for  his  statement  as  to  the  economy  in  the  management  of  his  schools.  'Years  of  ex- 
periment," he  says, '  have  proved  to  me,  that  the  whole  cost  of  Sabbath-school  manage* 
merit,  on  the  most  liberal  scale,  including  question-books,  Bibles,  hymn-books,  children's 
papers,  libraries,  and  necessary  printing,  with  the  anniversary  books  added,  may  be 
brought  within  two  cents  a  Sabbath  for  each  scholar.  Surely  the  Christian  church  can 
not  ask  for  a  more  economical  expenditure  or  more  effective  investment  than  this.' 
Where  is  the  church  that  can  not  raise  two  cents  'a  week  for  every  child  that  can  b* 
fathered  in? 

"  Though  we  would  not  follow  Dr.  Tyng  in  some  things,  yet  we  listen  eagerly  to  what 
•e  has  to  say  on  all  the  important  matters  of  which  he  treats.  He  has  given  us  a  fresh 
Interest  in  the  cause,  and  ro.-ne  of  his  valuable  hints  we  nu-an  to  put  into  practice  at  once. 
We  most  earnestly  commend  *.h  >  perusal  of  this  work  to  pastors,  elders,  superintendents, 
^Mchers,  and  parents,  assuring  them  Ml,  that  they  will  find  it  full  of  thcuvht:  worthy  of 
Ike  distinguished  author,  it  la.  \  i  •L^jv'S  '•'"'  ~uoct  ir»i>o.t.inl  dL'ieustron  (*  tt*  wncU 
••Itf**  that  ha*  yet  bee*  JHO  'ti  n  *•  -?hf-  /-*.— H*.-,  „"•  \ 


Pudished  by  Sheldon  <&  Co. 


ABBOTT'S    AMERICAN    HISTORY. 

A  Series  of  American  Histories  for  Youth, 

By  JACOB  ABBOTT, 

In  Twelve  Volumes,  each  volume  complete  in  itself. 
Illustrated  with  numerous  Maps  and  Engravings,  from  designs  by  Darlojr, 

Chapin,  Herrick,  Perkins,  Parsons,  Stephens,  and  others. 
The  Series  will  consist  of— 

1.  ABORIGINAL  AMERICA,  (now  ready). 

2.  DISCOVERY  OP  AMERICA,  (now  ready). 

3.  THE  SOUTHERN  COLONIES,  (now  ready). 

4.  THE  NORTHERN  COLONIES. 

5.  THE  MIDDLE  COLONIES. 

6.  REVOLT  OF  THE  COLONIES. 

7.  BOSTON  IN  SEVENTY-FIVE. 

8.  NEW  YORK  IN  SEVENTY-SIX. 

9.  THE  CAROLINAS  IN  SEVENTY-NINE. 
0.  CAMPAIGN  IN  THE  JERSEYS. 

j.1.  BURGOYNE  AND  CORNWALLIS. 
12.  THE  FEDERAL  CONSTITUTION. 

It  is  the  intention  of  the  publishers  that  this  Series  of  Popular  American 
Histories  shall  fill  a  place  long  vacant  in  the  literature  of  our  country,  a  task 
which  no  author  is  so  capable  of  performing  as  Mr.  JACOB  ABBOTT.  The 
utmost  care  in  the  mechanical  execution  of  the  books  will  be  used,  it  being 
their  intention  to  make  them  as  attractive  as  they  will  be  entertaining. 

Each  voL,  16mo.    Price  75  cents. 

From  the  Boston  Traveller. 

"  Sheldon  &  Co.  of  New  York  have  commenced  the  publication  of  a  new  series  of  popu 
lar  American  Histories  for  Youth,  by  Jacob  Abbott,  the  bsst  living  author  of  juvenile 
nooks.  The  series  opens  with  an  elegant  volume  (16mo,  283  pages),  entitled  '  Aboriginal 
America,'  giving  a  lively  and  reliable  account  of  the  country  as  it  was  when  Europeans 
first  reached  it,  and  of  the  modes  of  Indian  life.  It  has  seventeen  maps  and  illustrations, 
beautifully  executed,  from  designs  by  the  first  artists.  The  series  will  be  completed  In 
twelve  volumes.  Judging  from  the  plan  of  the  work,  and  by  the  opening  volume,  we  are 
confident  that  this  series  of  juvenile  books  will  be  found,  in  all  respects,  the  most  excel- 
lent publication  of  the  kind  ever  undertaken.  In  point  of  execution,  the  volumes  are  to 
stand  at  the  head  of  their  class,  the  printing  and  illustrations  being  admirable,  and  worthy 
of  the  highest  praise." 

From  the  New  York  Examiner. 


Allluillil  ID    JUOb  100111:11,    illlU     It    Id     bU      UUiV  H  LI1  1 1 1 1^    J.ll  III  IA;|1,    DVS    HciotCl  ouA  AUUU,    rtlnl    ov 

pleasantly  written,  that  we  shall  expect  to  hear  that  the  sale  is  reaching  a  very  high 
figure.  Just  such  a  history  of  our  country  waa  a  necessity,  and  we  are  thankful  that  it 
is  to  be  so  well  supplied." 

From,  the  Boston  Advertiser. 

"  This  is  the  first  volume  of  an  American  History  in  the  course  of  preparation  by  Mr. 
Abbott  The  object  of  this  history  is  to  give,  in  a  clear,  simple,  and  intelligible  manner, 
the  leading  events  connected  with  the  history  of  our  country  from  the  earliest  periods 
down,  as  nearly  as  practicable,  to  the  present  time.  The  natural  history,  the  plant*,  the 
native  inhabitants  of  the  country,  are  treated  of  in  this  first  volume.  The  several  volume* 
are  to  be  illustrated  with  maps  and  engravings.  Tbe  illustrations  in  this  volume  are  w«J3 
deMgned  and  executed." 


Books  Published  by  Sheldon  &  Co. 


THE    HOUSEHOLD   LIBEARY. 

A  SERIES  OF  CHOICE  BIOGRAPHIES  BY  DISTINGUISHED  AUTHORS. 

!•  Eighteen  Volumes.     18mo.     Muslin.     Uniform  style.    Price  of  each  vol.,  50  cent*. 

Vou  I.— LIFE  AND  MARTYRDOM  OP  JOAN  OF  ARC.    By  MICIIELCT. 

Vot.         IL— LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.    By  TUOMAS  CABLTLB,  and  others. 

Vol.        III.— LIFE  AND  TEACHINGS  OF  SOCRATES.     By  GEOBQE  GBOTK. 

Vol..        IV.— LIFE  OF  COLUMBUS.    By  ALPHOXSK  BB  LAMABTINE. 

Vou          V<r-LIFE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.    By  LORD  MAOAULAT. 

Voi.        VI.— LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  PITT.    By  LOBD  MACAU  LAY. 

VOL.      VIL— LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.    By  GIBBOX.    With  the  Notes  of  DBAM  MILHAJ 

and  DB.  WILLIAM  SMITH. 
You     VHI.— LIFE  OF  LUTHER.    By  CHET.  BTTNSIW.    With  a  Spiritual  Portrait  of 

Luther  by  CABLYLB,  and  an  Appendix  by  SIB  WM.  HAMILTON. 
VOL.       IX.— LIFE  OF  OLIVER  CROMWELL.    By  LAMABTIHE. 
VOL.         X.— LIFE  OF  TORQUATO  TASSO.    By  G.  II.  WIFFEX. 
VOL.        XI.  )  LIFE  OF  PETER  THE  GREAT.    In  two  Volume*.    Compiled  by  UM 
VOL.      XII.  )        Editor. 
VOL.     XIIL— LIFE  OF  MILTON.    By  PBOFEBBOB  .MASSON  ;  and  an  Estimate  of  Mil. 

ton's  Genius  and  Character,  by  LOBD  MACAULAT. 
VOL.     XIV.— LIFE  OF  THOMAS  A  BECKET.    By  DBAW  MILMAN. 
VOL.       XV.— LIFE  OF  HANNIBAL.    By  THOMAS  ABNOLD,  LL.D. 
VOL.     XVL— LIFE  OF  VITTORIA  COLON  N A.    By  T.  ADOLTHUS  TBOLLOFB. 
VOL.   XVII.— LIFE  OF  JULIUS  CJ2SAR.    By  HENBT  G.  LIDDELL,  D.D. 
VOL.  XVIIL— LIFE  OF  MARY  STUART.    By  ALPHONBB  DB  LAMABTINB. 

* 

NOTICES    OF   THE   PRESS: 

"  The  story  of  the  '  Maid  of  Orleans*  has  often  been  told,  but  never  with  such  th-UUng 
pathos  as  by  Michelet,  All  the  Incidents  of  the  heroine's  life  are  forested  with  new  inter 
eat,  and  her  cruel  and  barbarous  execution  receive  at  the  hands  of  the  eloquent  and  Indig- 
nant historian,  the  condemnation  which  it  so  well  deserves.  The  volume  is  got  up  in 
beautiful  style." — Philadelphia  News. 

"  The  '  Life  of  Socrates'  is  from  Mr.  Grote's  splendid  History  of  Greece.  It  !•  very 
complete,  acd  •»*"  serve  to  introduce  the  great  Athenian  philosopher  to  a  better  house- 
jold  acquail  mx  in  this  country." — U.  S.  Journal. 

"  Carlyle's  beautiful  essay  is  one  of  the  finest  compositions  of  the  kind  ever  written— 
and  every  admirer  of  the  genius  of  Robert  Burns,  as  well  as  all  literary  student*,  will  find 
It  to  be  a  volume  both  of  interest  and  value."— .Boston  Uullctin. 

"This  series  is  peculiarly  calculated  for  school  libraries,  and  theyahonld  find  their  way 
Into  all  our  common  school  and  Sunday  school  libraries.  We  are  confident  the  '  House 
hold  Library'  will  secure  a  widely-extended  circulation." — Christian  Ambassador. 

"  The  romance  of  history  is  so  much  better  for  the  young  than  the  romance  of  fiction 
that  we  are  always  glad  to  see  such  books  appear."— Congregational  Herald. 

"  The  plan  is  to  present,  from  the  rery  best  authorities,  biographic!  or  episodes  of  bis 
tory,  admitting  of  separation  without  injury."— The  Century. 

"All  the  volumes  of  this  series  are  deserving  a  largn  share  of  popular  faror,  as  they 
are  calculated  to  promote  a  familiarity  with  Uie  great  spirit  of  history  and  literature, 
tempting  the  reader  to  their  study  when  the  sight  of  more  ponderous  tomes  would  d  IT* 
them  back  in  despair  "—Evening  Saturday  Argus. 


